


BKNBK

by andnowforyaya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, New York City, Past Relationship(s), References to Drugs, so fluffy you could float, the twins are wee and part of the hale family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Stiles and Lydia own a bakery in brooklyn - the sign outside is a stylized BKNBK - and Stiles meets Derek after he places a rush order for cupcakes for his twin cousins' birthday party.</p><p>In the chapter: Stiles finds out Derek's secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Seven dozen cupcakes total; two dozen yellow cake with chocolate ganache frosting, three dozen red velvet, two dozen Brooklyn blackout. He wants a Greek mythology theme - apparently his twin cousins are really into Percy Jackson. So, you know, go heavy on the tridents and lightning bolts. It's a rush job so he needs them delivered tomorrow by noon. Cousins' party is at one-sharp."

Lydia rambles the order off while checking for smears in her lipstick in her compact, which is a useless activity since there are never smears in her perfect red lipstick, like she hasn't just sentenced Stiles to eight hours of hard labor in the middle of the night as she closes up shop. She snaps the compact shut and slips it back into her purse. She's been wearing heels all day and still has an unreasonable amount of bounce in her strawberry blonde hair.

He knew getting into business with her had been a bad idea; at the time, it had seemed reasonable, especially since Allison had helped them draw up the plans. Now, though, Allison's busy being heavily pregnant with her and Scott's first child and probably eating pickles and ice cream straight out of the tub and very much not present for when Stiles needs her to stop Lydia Martin from boarding the Insanity Train, which she conducts from time to time.

"Hell to the no- _oh_ ," Stiles protests, knowing the kind of image he strikes in the backroom of a bakery, apron and dark t-shirt dusted in flour and sugar, some of the powder probably stuck to his hair and face. He always goes home smelling like vanilla, no matter what baked good had been in demand that day. He waggles his index finger in her face and she frowns at it. He's just finished prepping materials for tomorrow to be baked in the morning. The front of the shop is dark. Because they're closed.

"We're closed! You shouldn't even have taken this order. It would have gone to voicemail. We would have picked it up tomorrow morning and called back and said, sorry, orders must be placed at least three days in advance to account for order volume, traffic, and other necessary preparations."

Lydia tilts her head and smiles sweetly, which pretty much indicates that whatever she's about to say is going to be the opposite of sweet. Stiles gulps. He wishes he hadn't had that last Red Bull an hour ago. Energy drinks make him more prone to speaking without thinking than usual. "I'm sorry," she begins, and she doesn't sound sorry at all. "But did just you just say I  _shouldn't_  have done something? Did you just tell me I shouldn't have taken a perfectly profitable order?"

"Um," Stiles says, backtracking a bit. "Yes?"

She glares.

"No," he says immediately. "It was a suggestion? I was wrong?"

"Stiles," Lydia admonishes, stepping forward into the backroom, and it makes Stiles take an involuntarily step in the opposite direction. Lydia very rarely travels into the backroom. That's Stiles' territory. She doesn't like how she always manages to get flour on her elbows. "You will do this tonight. You will bake this man his cupcakes for his cousins. Do you know why?"

Stiles shakes his head.

"Because his cousins are turning four.  _Four_. Do you know how many repeat birthday orders we'll be getting from them if we do a good job? Not to mention - he said he had a huge family. Insatiable appetites. You know how family can get. They'll want to stick by us. We'll be asked to provide for all their celebrations, Stiles. All of them." She smiles. "If you do a good job," she finishes.

Then, taking pity, she adds, "I'll let you take Sunday off when you do this."

He takes a moment to think about how people are wrong about Lydia - she's not out to take over the world, really. She can be nice. She's just ambitious. She sees opportunity and grabs it by the throat. Then he realizes:

_"_ _We're not open Sundays."_

Lydia laughs, tapping Stiles on the cheek affectionately. Stiles pouts, because he knows he's given in. The cupcakes will be baked. And they will be awesome. "I'll tell Isaac to come in early to help, okay? He can assemble."

"That's not as helpful as you think it is," Stiles grumbles, just to be contrary. Lydia, of course, picks up on this.

"Oh, so you'd rather I not ask him to come?"

Stiles sputters. He even flails a little bit. Thank god he had put away the bowls filled with batter that needed to be refrigerated already, or else many of them would have taken a spill from the counter to the tiled floor. "What? No; ask him. Ask him, ask him, ask him."

"All right, all right," she coos at him. "Don't drink all the energy drinks, okay? You could have a heart attack."

He sighs, put-upon. "Yes, dear."

She leaves him with a promise to send Isaac and also a couple of orders of dirty chais in the morning to help along the process. Stiles eyes the counter and mentally calculates how long this job is going to take, and briefly entertains the idea of bringing up labor laws to Allison, but in the end Lydia is right.

It'll be good business.

He digs out his laptop from his messenger hanging by the back door and sets it on the counter, trying to decide what kind of music he's in the mood for.

He's in for a long night.

.

Stiles has no idea why he doesn't just make it easier for himself.

He should have just stuck with tridents and lightning bolts, but no. He wants to make those along with little fondant cut-outs of Chucks with wings along the heels. And he's watched Percy Jackson at least 3 times just this night, he's pretty sure.

He hates his life.

At least all the cupcakes are baked, cooling in the proofer in the corner before they can be iced and decorated. Three-fourths of the morning's supply is also finished, waiting to be plucked by ravenous customers on their way to work. Meanwhile Stiles has laid out like what looks like endless rows of tiny lightning bolts, tridents, and pairs of red Chuck Taylor shoes onto the marble counter on sheets and sheets of thin parchment paper along the wall.

Their kitchen isn't that large, but it's got all the necessities. Lydia wanted them to stay small and personal. She wanted, eventually, to open more bakeries along the coast but wasn't in a hurry to do so. Their bakery is only partyly a cafe, Stiles insists, because they serve coffee and have a little bit of seating inside. They're known for their desserts, and often sell out of their red velvet and Brooklyn Blackout cakes within hours of opening, courtesy of Stiles' amazing baking prowess he discovered in college, where he became the go-to guy for taking baked goods and pot and turning it into something otherworldly.

It's funny, because their little shop is just called _Baked_ (in Brooklyn).

Allison and Scott and Stiles thought it was funny, anyway. Lydia admitted that there was something attractive about its simplicity, as long as no one else knew the history behind the name. There isn't pot in any of his desserts any more. 

Usually.

Definitely none in the three dozen red velvets on the cooling trays, though he can't say for certain that the yellow cake isn't spiked with some Monster.

By now the sun is rising and casting long shadows into the front of the store, and Stiles' fingers are shaking a little as he paints on tiny shoelaces and attaches a little white wing to each sugar-shoe. His laptop has been playing podcast after podcast for the past few hours, neglected and running through a random playlist, and he's pretty sure the current one is about stars and life on Mars. Whatever.

He'd stopped listening ages ago, losing himself in the little details.

ADHD is a weird thing, he thinks, especially as he gets older. It's just as easy for his brain to make jumps and leaps during the course of a single conversation as it is for him to become so hyper-focused on something that everything else falls away.

Point being, he definitely cannot be faulted for the squeaking yell that comes out of his mouth when suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder. And he also can't be blamed for how his brush slips and the current shoe he's painting becomes a black inky blob.

Isaac says, "Whoops," and Stiles is going to kill him with his wooden mixing spoon, he swears.

But then again, it's Isaac, and now they can finally get to icing.

"Red velvet, 3 dozen. If you lose one I will murder you," Stiles rasps, trying to save his little fondant shoe. He also can't be blamed for his words, okay, can't be blamed for anything, because his heart his jolting painfully in his chest and he hasn't slept and he's just now realizing how absolutely hungry he is, and Isaac looks fresh out of bed, curly blonde locks perfect around his head.

Isaac holds out a paper bag. "Lydia told me to bring you dirty chai, but I brought you a bagel instead."

Stiles makes an embarrassingly needy noise, but doesn't stop fussing with the shoe. "Okay, I take it back. I won't kill you if you feed me."

Isaac drops the paper bag onto the counter with a crunching sound, dangerously close to the tridents and lightning bolts. "Feed yourself," he says, unhooking an apron from the wall. "I've got cupcakes to ice."

"But I have to--"

"Eat your bagel and take a nap?" The look Isaac shoots him is equal parts irritated and worried.

"But the decorations are--"

"Finished in neat little rows of twelve? I know, I can see that."

"Okay, well the icing is--"

"In the fridge. Ganache for the yellow, chocolate for Blackout, cream cheese for red. Got it."

Stiles makes a noise of frustration while Isaac crosses his arms, smirking. "I've been awake for 36 hours," he cries plaintively.

"Which is why you're eating that bagel and then taking a nap on the sofa in front. Because we've still got 3 hours before we open and you look like you've just fought a one-man-war and your opponent was Colonel Cupcake."

"Ha," Stiles huffs out. "Ha, very ha."

"Stiles, dude, I've got this," Isaac assures him, tying on his apron.

Stiles takes one last look at his decorations lying harmless on parchment paper, and then he throws his hands up into the air. "Fine, fine." He grabs the bag from the counter and says, "This better be an everything with extra cream cheese."

"It's a cinnamon raisin with butter," Isaac teases as Stiles unties his apron to hang up on the wall.

He eats the bagel aggressively, not at all surprised that it's an everything with extra cream cheese.

.

He wakes up panicking, and something crashes to the floor. His iPhone.

"Go back to sleep!" Isaac calls from the back room. "It's only been 20 minutes!"

He begrudgingly sinks back down into the couch, picking up his phone gingerly from the floor, but as soon as his head hits the soft and worn cushions, he knows that sleep has escaped him.

The next few minutes find him trying to push his way through the door to the backroom, but Isaac has always been unexpectedly strong. And quick. When Stiles feints left he's there immediately, and he's back again when Stiles goes the other way. He can see why Isaac made such a good lacrosse player, back in the day. They end up with Stiles' shoulder shoved into Isaac's chest as he barricades the entry way with his body.

"Come on!" Stiles pleads. "Just let me look. I have to know what you've completed. What's the progress? How many do you have to do still? Have you ruined any of my darling cakes?"

"Your dark circles have dark circles," Isaac tells him. "Go back to sleep."

"Can't," Stiles pants against him. "The energy drinks have changed my physiology. I don't understand - Lydia keeps telling me not to drink them but then she restocks the fridge with them, anyway! It's torture."

"She's testing your mettle."

Stiles shoves against Isaac and finally finds an opening, twisting through the gap and stumbling into the kitchen. On the counter are a dozen perfectly iced red velvet cupcakes, topped with one lightning bolt each. Isaac's even found some blue dusting sugar to sprinkle over the top, making it look like the lightning bolts have just been charged.

"See?" Isaac says smugly. "Everything's fine. And we still have four hours until delivery."

Stiles looks at the cupcakes like they personally offend them. Which they don't. He's the opposite of personally offended. In fact, he has the stinking suspicion that the emotion that's welling up inside of him right now is _pride_. Isaac's come a long way from when they first hired him, ignorant of the difference between confectioners sugar and granulated.

"The lightning bolts were supposed to go on the yellow cupcakes," Stiles grumbles, just to be an ass.

Isaac grins. "Okay," he nods, taking the false criticism pleasantly. "Sure."

They settle in next to each other, icing the rest of the cupcakes and sticking on the decorations, letting the rising sun warm their work.

.

Deliveries are another thing entirely.

Stiles is pretty sure he's going to die every time they hit a pothole, or Isaac slams the brakes too suddenly, and the whole jeep seems to pitch forward.

Having a jeep in New York City seems unreasonable, but Stiles just couldn't bear to leave his baby behind on the West Coast when they moved. He justifies it by claiming they have to make a lot of trips into Jersey, anyway, for supplies, so it's a good thing he brought her over. That said, the jeep is not the smoothest of rides in the city, but at least they're in Brooklyn, where the crazy drivers aren't so crazy.

After the fourth braking, Stiles' hand shoots up to brace himself against the frame and Isaac rolls his eyes at him. His pulse is racing. One day, this anxiety thing will be in check, but today is not that day.

"Breathe, Stiles," Isaac instructs, while Stiles frantically cranes his neck to check behind him that all the boxes are still flat and nothing has been crushed. "We're almost there."

" _You_  breathe," he snaps. "Or at least drive like a normal person."

Isaac frowns, biting the inside of his lip. "I thought I was getting better!"

"If by better, you mean worse."

"We're close, anyway." Right on cue, their GPS pings and instructs them to turn left. They've turned down a road lined with old brownstones in Park Slope, and there are actual trees on the sidewalks and some children playing street ball. It's like a scene from a movie.

Stiles gapes. "Imagine living in one of those," he says in awe. The brownstones are huge brick townhouses that, on Manhattan, have mostly all been broken up into multiple-family apartments. Here in Park Slope, though, one family probably lives in each one. Stiles can't imagine having that much space in the city.

"How rich do you think the Hales are?" Isaac responds, referring to their client. Lydia had texted them the address along with a name: D. Hale.

Now, Stiles imagines the initials monogrammed on a handkerchief and leather suitcase, and he imagines white parties in Nantucket along the coast, and he imagines petit-fours on silver trays and a big black dog and grassy lawns. And then Isaac is shaking him to awareness because he drifted off for half a second. He swats at the offending hand. "What?  _What_?"

"We're here," Isaac explains, pulling into an open parking space along the sidewalk. Yet another miracle that seems only to happen in Brooklyn - space for parking. The brownstone they have pulled in front of is much like the others, sandwiched on both sides with other brownstones, but the building itself stands out with its reddish bricks against the surrounding beige. It looks to be 4 storeys tall, with steps leading up to the front door.

"Hale residence, huh," Stiles says around a dry mouth.

"Stop gawking and let's get these cupcakes inside."

His phone buzzes as he's getting out. A message from Lydia telling him to take the day off to catch up on sleep, complete with a smiley face. Stiles puts the phone back into the back pocket of his jeans, grumbling. Lydia of all people should know that once he gets the day started it's pretty much a given that he'll be awake for most of it. Side effect of the medication he still has to take, he likes to tell himself. Like, it's either he's awake for 13 hours or for 48; there doesn't seem to be an in between.

The door to the brownstone opens, carrying with it the sounds of screeching children. Stiles winces. The guy in the door winces, too.

And then Stiles gets a good look at him.

And it should be illegal to look that good in a pair of sweats and a deep purple henley. The guy has thick, dark hair in sharp contrast to his pale skin, and a serious, diamond-cutting jawline. Stiles feels his mouth go dry a second time, and then two identical children burst out from behind his legs, making a beeline for Stiles and Isaac and the jeep.

They're both chanting at the top of their lungs, "Cupcakes! Cupcakes! Cupcakes!" with smiles that are way too big for their faces.

The guy in the doorway slaps a palm over his face, mumbling to himself. Then he barks, "Aiden! Ethan! Get back inside! How many times do you have to be told not to run out like that? You don't even know if these are the cupcake guys!"

But his warnings fall on deaf ears. Stiles steels himself, plants both feet firmly shoulder-width apart, and holds out a palm, a universal sign for stop. He's had a rough day so far, and he'd like to think he's earned some peace. Then he says, "Stop," firmly, just to be clear.

The two boys stop in front of him, faces eager and wriggling with energy. Stiles blinks, surprised.

"Wow, Stiles," Isaac says, disbelief apparent in his voice. "You're like the twin whisperer, or something." He goes around back to begin unloading the boxes, while Stiles just stands there with his hand out like a fool uncertain what to do with the power he's just discovered he has. If the twins were puppies, their tails would be thumping against the ground. They're two boys with short dirty-blonde hair and dark eyes, dimple-cheeked and feisty-looking. One is wearing a blue polo with an A monogrammed on the chest; the other a green one with an E.

The guy from the door stalks over to them, jaw hanging open a little. He regards Stiles like he's an exotic animal at the zoo. "How did you…?"

He shakes his head, coming back to himself. "Boys, go back inside while we get the cupcakes."

The twins don't move, eyes eerily fixed on Stiles. The guy huffs in annoyance.

Stiles grows uncomfortable under their stares and lowers his hand. Then he points at the door to the brownstone and snaps his fingers. "Go inside while we unload so we don't drop anything, okay? We don't want any cupcake casualties."

The twins turn to each other, eyes wide. "Cupcake casualties," they both whisper, horrified. Stiles would be seriously impressed if they knew what a casualty was. He assumes they can recognize from his tone that it would be a Very Bad Thing.

Then they dart back towards the house and through the door, their little faces soon visible in the window on the first floor overlooking the sidewalk.

Now the guy is looking at Stiles with suspicion, and Stiles shifts back and forth on his feet. "They don't listen to anyone," the guy says stonily, expression unwavering and eyes narrowed.

"Um," Stiles manages. "I'm like the exciting cupcake guy so they listen to me because I bring cupcakes?"

"You don't understand," the guy says. "They don't listen to _anyone_ ," and he manages to look a little crazed while admitting this, like he's telling Stiles about a pet shop of horrors, and not two little boys. Stiles refuses to find this endearing. He holds out a hand stiffly, and Stiles shakes it. "Derek," he introduces.

"Stiles. That's Isaac." He jerks his head to where Isaac is stacking three boxes on top of each other. He nods at Derek, cool. Derek's fingers are dry and warm.

"Need a hand?" Derek offers. Stiles lets go, shaking his head.

"Dude, no, that's okay. Thanks. I mean, how are you going to tip us if you do half the work?" Stiles smiles, cheeky, and Derek smirks.

"You were expecting a tip?"

Something must change in Stiles' face - a startled expression or a darkening of his eyes - because then Derek pulls back, apologizing, lips turned down in a tiny frown. "No, I mean, of course I was going to tip you. Just joking." He shoves a hand into the pocket of his sweats and pulls out a neat billfold stuffed with large-ish bills.

Stiles ogles the money. Who carries around that much cash anymore? He looks at the house and then back at Derek, and then shoots Isaac a look of mock-alarm. He hopes the look conveys that he's pretty sure Derek's family must be related to underground crime and that they should henceforth proceed with extreme caution. Isaac gets it, and he rolls his eyes at him. He's been doing a lot of that lately.

"I'm going to bring these in," Isaac announces. "Just straight into the kitchen?"

"Yeah, please," Derek says, distracted, as he counts out the money. To Stiles: "How much do I owe you?"

He seems cowed after his attempt to joke, so Stiles says graciously, "Well, given the rush order and the fact that I'm operating on maybe twenty minutes of sleep, the gas and mileage, and your perceived disposable income, that's gonna have to come out to 400 bucks, even."

Derek stops counting bills. He looks up at Stiles, sharp, and Stiles can't help the quick intake of breath that follows immediately after, Derek's hazel eyes piercing. Derek frowns some more before coming to a conclusion:

"That's not a funny joke."

"Well, don't joke about not tipping." Stiles shrugs. "Do you know how many heart attacks I suffered on the way over? Especially with that guy driving." He jerks his head again to Isaac, who's re-emerging from the door unscathed. Well, except for the two little boys hanging off either arm.

"We want to help!" the one with the A on his shirt yells.

"Let us help!" yells the other, and they both fail to see how completely counter intuitive their actions are to their words.

Isaac tries to shake them off, but they're like little leeches, and he ends up half-walking, half-dragging them all over to make the next trip. "Help," he says simply. Aiden grabs at Isaac's shirt and yanks it down, bringing Isaac down with him lest his collar rip.

"No!" Derek shouts, startling all of them, swooping down quickly to pick Aiden up and away. The effect is instantaneous.

Aiden's eyes grow watery and his face splotchy, and then he is crying big, fat, unreasonable tears. His twin sees and mirrors him, crying and making grabby hands at Derek, and even though Stiles is pretty sure Derek would be able to heft both of the both up easily, Aiden is doing his best impression of a wet noodle, and it's taking all of Derek's attention to keep him from wriggling out and cracking his head open on the sidewalk. Isaac stands, bewildered and wide-eyed.

"We don't do that to strangers! We don't do that to anyone!" Derek reprimands.

"Wah!" Ethan cries, balling up his fists when Derek doesn't reach down to pick him up, too. He rears back a foot like he's going to kick, and Stiles moves swiftly into action.

"Oh, no you don't." He grabs Ethan from his armpits and swings him up, holding him in both arms because he's heavier than he looks, and the boy immediately begins to struggle. Then both twins are struggling, and Derek makes this noise like he's about to rip someone's head off, muttering something that sounds like, "All the _effing_ time," so Stiles calls over the wailing of the twins, "Why don't we bring them inside while Isaac brings in the rest of the cupcakes?"

.

This turns out to be a great idea, since kids tend to make Isaac twitchy, so pretty soon he finds himself in the living room of the Hale house, and there's a blocked-up fireplace with a mantel full of family pictures, and a tastefully arranged sofa-loveseat-coffee-table combination complete with a soft, inviting rug over their hardwood floors. The walls are lined with shelves, and the shelves are lined with books and more photos. Stiles deposits his twin straight onto the sofa, and Derek struggles to untangle himself from the octopus-monster that his twin has suddenly become. Then, Ethan and Aiden are wailing on the couch and Isaac is safe in the kitchen, probably arranging the cupcakes so that they can be presented in their best possible light, and Stiles is getting really tired of all the extra noise.

"Now you definitely owe me 400 bucks," Stiles says heavily to Derek, who throws up his arms and has that crazed look in his eyes again. The scruff doesn't help. Or, it helps a lot with the general level of attraction Stiles feels towards him, just not with the crazed look in his eyes.

"If you can get them to calm down," Derek promises. "I will pay you whatever you want. I'll get you box seats to the next game. Whatever game. Their tantrums can go on for days."

Stiles kind of wants to take Derek's face in his hands and squish it around until he forms a smile again, or at least until he can iron out that wrinkle forming in his brow. Instead he puts his hands on his own hips and tries to remember some of the tricks his mother would do to make him her best-behaved little munchkin.

"I guess since you're so upset," he says to the twins in the calmest voice he can manage. He remembers somewhere how kids tend to mirror your emotions, so he tries to radiate calm, which has never been easy for him. "We're just going to have to cancel the party."

"No!" Aiden screeches immediately. "You can't  _cancel_."

"But if you're upset going in, you're going to upset everyone else, too," Stiles continues, oozing calm. He channels his inner yoga instructor. Or what he imagines his inner yoga instructor would sound like. "And we don't want anyone to be upset at this party, do we?"

"No?" Ethan questions, sniffling a little. He looks at Stiles confusedly, like he isn't quite sure what he's getting at. That's okay, because Stiles isn't really sure, either.

"No," Stiles agrees, nodding emphatically. Vaguely, he is aware of Derek gaping at him, and he quite likes the look of that.

"No," Aiden repeats, shaking his head. "No, we want party!"

"Yeah, we want party!"

They're not crying anymore, but rather looking at Stiles with wide, hopeful eyes. Stiles decides to push his luck, so he muses aloud, "Well, if you want a party, you're going to have to prove it to me."

The twins shift on the sofa, sitting up suddenly on their heels, eager. "What? How?"

"You can start by..." Stiles hesitates, shifting his eyes over to Derek, who shrugs. So unhelpful. "Cleaning your room," he finishes lamely.

But both boys immediately leap off the sofa and scramble up the stairs, presumably to their room.

Once their crashing footsteps have faded from the staircase, Derek lets out a whoosh of breath. "You're good," he says, voice deep, like it pains him to admit this.

"Eh," Stiles says dismissively. "It was nothing."

"Well, don't be an asshole about it," Derek shoots back, which makes Stiles stiffen, but then Derek deflates again and mumbles, "God, sorry. It's just - they've been like that all day, and my family's out until the party. They are _literally_ bringing the party with them - so. It's been a long day."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay. I can't just - if my sister Laura were here she'd be comparing me to a caveman - I can't just say things like that to people I've never met before who are bringing me cupcakes that I placed an order for at the last minute. Jesus. Four hundred bucks? Done."

"That's not," Stiles begins, gulping for air like a fish out of water. "Here, the total is, like, two-thirty-five or something, let me get the order." He digs into his back pocket to bring out the invoice, but Derek holds out a hand and takes out his billfold again.

"The rest is tip," he tells Stiles, counting out 400 in crisp, hundred-dollar bills. He folds the money into Stiles' hand because Stiles' fingers have stopped working, and it's very quiet in the living room, now, and Derek still hasn't let go.

"I don't think you understand," Derek continues. "That was amazing."

The blush starts at Stiles' neck and creeps into his cheeks and over the tops of his ears. He feels its heat spreading and wishes he could bury his face into his arms, but Derek's still holding his hand around the money, and he finds he doesn't really want him to let go, anyway.

"Can I convince you to come back as their babysitter?" Derek asks.

Stiles' breath gets caught in his lungs. Yes, he wants to say. He'd really like to see Derek again. And if that means dealing with psychotic identical twins for a few hours a day, he could handle that. Probably.

Isaac comes around the corner and stops when he sees their linked hands, brows furrowing. "Um," he begins, fidgeting a little. "Right. Okay, well, the cupcakes are set. Have fun at the party. I'll wait in the car." And then he escapes.

Derek's eyes flicker down between them, and it's like he's just realizing that he's still holding Stiles' hand, because he lets go abruptly, stammering. "Cool. Great. Thanks for the delivery. Thanks for dealing with the twins. Uh, thanks."

"Uh," Stiles says intelligently. "Okay. Bye."

He probably imagines the disappointment that crosses Derek's features as he leaves the house, Derek standing in the doorway behind him. But he waves as he and Isaac pull away from the curb.

.


	2. Chapter 2

Next Sunday Stiles decides they need to restock on the basics, so he and Lydia and Isaac take a mini-roadtrip into Jersey to this bulk grocer they've made a deal with before making the haul back to Brooklyn and unloading.

Well, Lydia mostly just points and directs while he and Isaac do the heavy lifting. 

Danny used to help out with this stuff, too, until he decided New York wasn't working out for him and moved back West. That was in no part Stiles' fault, they both insist. Sure, it was mutual. Sure, they had drifted. Stiles just can't help but think he could have tried harder to make it work between them, but in the end he and Danny had fizzled out like soda left alone for too long on the counter.

He'd been Stiles' first real relationship. Not a bad guy to start things with. They still talk, sometimes, still consider each other friends. Danny has an easy way about him that seems to belong in California.

However, this just means now that it takes twice as long to unload and restock, and by the time they're dwindling down the sun is beginning to set, casting an orange glow to the streets of Williamsburg where Baked resides. Summer is just beginning to turn into Autumn, so the air is clear and warm.

Stiles is shouldering the last 50-lb bag of sugar when he hears footsteps approaching from behind him. He thinks nothing of it until the footsteps stop, and then a masculine voice seems to erupt into his ear.

"Jesus Christ!" Stiles shouts, nearly dropping the heavy sack in his haste to turn around, heart pattering rapidly in his chest.

Derek lifts an eyebrow at him, taking out the earbuds in his ears to loop the cord around the back of his neck. Stiles should not get weak-kneed, especially with fifty pounds of sugar on his shoulders. The other man's dressed in running shorts and a shirt that's clinging to his chest and abs from sweat.

"I said, need some help?" he repeats.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Stiles blurts before realizing how rude that sounds. "I mean," he amends, shifting the bag up higher onto his shoulder. "Hey, man."

"I was running," Derek says, looking down at himself.

"From  _Park Slope_?"

"No," Derek says, staring at Stiles like he's grown a third eye. "I live in the area."

"Oh."

Of course Derek would live in Williamsburg.  _Of course_  he would take this route on his weekend runs. Stiles groans, because his life. He isn't sure if he's blessed or cursed, because he just seems always to be surrounded by really attractive people.

Derek apparently takes the noise he makes as discomfort, because he moves to shift the bag of sugar from Stiles' shoulder to his own, and Stiles lets him. Stiles holds the door open for him just as Lydia pops up from behind the counter, freezing in the way that means she's not really startled, but considering, when her eyes land on Derek.

"Hello," she purrs. "Can I help you?"

"He's helping us," Stiles corrects, gesturing to the bag, and he sends Lydia a glare that means  _back off, no, off-limits_. She smirks, eyes all-knowing. "This is Derek."

"Derek Hale? Who placed the order last week that was rushed and made Stiles stay up for a straight 48-hours completing the order?"

"The one and only," Stiles says as Derek grows bashful under the commentary, ducking his head.

"You can put that in the back," Lydia says off-hand, pointing him in the right direction. "Isaac will take care of it. How were the cupcakes?"

"Ethan and Aiden were absolutely bouncing off the walls and uncontrollable until about midnight, so I guess they were good," he answers when he's done with the bag of sugar.

"You didn't have any?" Stiles asks, strangely disappointed.

"I had a red velvet," Derek admits. "I'm not really a dessert person."

Lydia looks doubly affronted on Stiles' behalf. "How can you say that in a bakery?" she huffs. "You better be careful or we'll ban you."

"I promise not to place any more rush orders," he concedes, but the damage is already done. Lydia turns and escapes out the front door with an envelope stuffed full of cash without a good-bye. Stiles knows she's going back to her apartment to take care of the budget and balance their account, which she likes to do with a bottle of red and a marathon on television. He's always amazed that there are never any mistakes.

"That was Lydia," Stiles says after she's gone, and he and Derek are just standing in the front of the bakery before the counter and glass display case, which is empty and clean for now.

"Okay." Derek stuffs his hands into his pocket. In the silence, Stiles can hear music still emanating from his earbuds.

"So," they both say simultaneously. Stiles blinks, and Derek gestures for him to go ahead. "Nothing, I just don't like awkward silences." He shrugs.

Derek's eyebrows furrow, making that line form in his forehead again, which Stiles just wants to flatten out with his fingertips. "When you point it out, doesn't it make it more awkward?"

"Ah," he begins beatifically. "But now we're talking about it, and the silence is over."

Derek tilts his head in acknowledgement, and then he says, "So I promised you tickets."

Now it's Stiles turn to furrow his brows. "What?"

"When you made the delivery," Derek reminds him. "And you dealt with the twins? Remember? I promised you tickets."

Stiles thinks back and only remembers being handed 400 dollars and the feel of Derek's warm, dry fingers around his own. "Cool," he says noncommittally.

"So I have some," Derek announces, oblivious to Stiles' confusion. He takes one hand out of his pocket, and in it are two tickets, and Stiles realizes he must have been running around with them. He had been running around this morning with the intention of finding Stiles and their bakery and reminding him about the tickets. It makes Stiles all warm inside. "For next weekend. Mets and Phillies. Do you want to--?"

He doesn't get the rest of the question out because at that moment Isaac calls out from the back room, "Yes! Oh my god, yes. We'll take those tickets!" He emerges, excited, very nearly snatching the tickets out of Derek's hand before gauging the atmosphere in the room. Derek's fingers are white around the paper.

"Um," Stiles hisses. " _Isaac_."

Isaac drops his hand, looking sheepish. "Oh, was this--? Oh. I mean, I guess I had no part in calming down the twins. So you should just take the tickets. The two tickets that Derek has."

"No, you two should--" Derek gestures between them.

"Isaac, get lost," Stiles orders, and Isaac puts up both hands in surrender and retreats back into the kitchen. Then, turning to Derek, whose face has frozen with his eyebrows raised and his mouth in a thin line, he decides, "Let's go." When Derek doesn't respond, he clarifies, "Together. You and me. To the Mets game."

At first, Stiles is worried that Derek doesn't register his words, and it's like he's waiting for a video to load on his laptop. Then Derek's face softens. His lips turn up into a small smile. Stiles smiles back. He feels a piece of himself lock into place, and for the first time since Danny, his heart thrums rapidly in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety.

"Okay," Derek says through his smile. "Great."

.

The thing about baseball is, Stiles knows very little about it, other than the random bits anyone growing up in America picks up; he's more of a hockey and football guy, and also because he has the tendency to over-share, Derek is well aware of this fact as soon as they take their seats.

They're friggin' amazing seats, too.

Even Stiles can tell that. They're right behind the dugout of the Mets, close enough that Stiles could throw a peanut into the discarded baseball cap near the steps into the pit. He listens gamely to all the batting averages and random stats Derek knows off the top of his head about the players, and tries to pick out what makes one player have good batting form and another too showy.

In a way, it's good that Derek knows he knows next to nothing about baseball, because he keeps up a steady stream of questions and answers and can't imagine a better way to spend their conversation.

By his third beer, though, everything is starting to blur together anyway, and Derek isn't telling him about stats anymore; he's pointing out the line of someone's swing, the follow through of someone's throw, waxing poetic, pointing with his fingers and gesticulating with his arms, loose and easy.

Oh, Stiles thinks. It's cute.

Derek strikes him as someone naturally prickly and abrasive. He feels like he's been picked to see this other side of him, soft and excited, and it's special.

After the game - Mets win 7-4 - the feeling doesn't go away, hazy to match the afternoon, and it's this feeling that Stiles will come back to at times, unexpected and full-bodied and rich, when he's walking down the street and passes a coffee shop with the doors open and they're playing a familiar song, or when there's a game on at the bar, or sometimes even when the sun is too bright and there are children playing tag in the park. They ride the train back to Williamsburg, crowded against each other in the packed car, and sway together when the track swerves.

.

It's not like Stiles had been expecting a call, expecting anything, really. The tickets had been the conclusion of a promise and it was nice that Derek had been good company, but he was just the cupcake guy and Derek was just the guy who had extra tickets lying around.

Still, though. One week of nothing sits heavy in his gut, especially when he remembers the way Derek had cupped the back of his neck after, close and warm, on the steps leading up to his apartment, before saying he had something he had to do but that this has been fun.Stiles' neck tingles at the memory.

Lydia throws a towel at him. It's Saturday morning and they're wiping down some of the surfaces, and Isaac's out on a delivery. "You're doing it again," shesnaps at him.

He catches the towel and frowns. "Doing what?"

"Spacing out and touching your neck." She informs him, clearly annoyed. "Thinking about your awesome baseball date." The way she attacks the table doesn't seem to make the cleaning any more efficient.

"It wasn't a date," Stiles grumbles, because it's useless to dispute that he was thinking about Derek, not to someone as astute as Lydia, as he starts scrubbing the counter space around the register.

"Did he pay for the tickets?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Did he buy you drinks?"

"Yeah."

"Did he buy you food?" 

Stiles pauses in cleaning, bent at the waist and thinking. He supposes the four hot dogs Derek came back with halfway through the game counted. "I guess."

"Then it was a date," Lydia assures him, tilting an eyebrow at him. The bell above their door rings and a customer walks in. "So stop moping and do something about it. This isn't the Victorian Era, you know. You are allowed to call him first. In fact, I hear it's even encouraged. Coffee and a croissant?" she finishes, addressing the customer, who startles a bit, but this one's becoming a regular and has more often than not opened the door to Stiles and Lydia's bicker or banter.

Stiles drops the rag and moves to the coffee machine behind the counter to fill a paper cup of the freshly brewed drink. "Wait, what do you mean  _I_  could call him first? Are you saying that I am the female part of this non-existent relationship?"

"You know I don't support gender stereotypes and perceived roles, but," she pauses, smirking. " _Please_ , honey." Lydia gives him a pointed look just as he's turning to place the coffee on the counter, and he scowls. The customer is laughing a quiet laugh all to himself. Stiles gives him the smallest croissant in the display out of spite, which is still a significantly sized pastry. He pays and leaves, taking his goods with him.

"I don't appreciate that," Stiles grouses. "At all."

"Maybe I wouldn't think that way if you stopped being such a pussy."

Stiles gapes. It's rare that Lydia sounds so vulgar so early in the morning. "I'm not being a pussy!"

"You mope around the shop bringing down the mood of all the customers and you turn on the TV sometimes to baseball and you smile this little smile even though I know for a fact you find baseball boring and sometimes you look at your phone and get this look in your eyes and I know - I know - you're thinking about all the different ways Derek can fuck you over that counter, which is so inappropriate, Stiles. You  _work_  here." She stands with her hands on her hips, and she's really only just getting riled up. Stiles knows she says these things out of love, but he can't help getting a little defensive.

"I do not think about him sexing me up six ways to Sunday, thank you very much. My thoughts about Derek are pure and full of rose petals and chocolate fountains, okay?"

Lydia scoffs. "Pure," is all she says, her tone fond.

Stiles' phone buzzes in his back pocket. He draws it out and answers it without looking at the caller ID, thinking it must be Isaac with direction problems again. "Yeah?" he snaps into the phone.

"Oh," is the startled, deep answer. Stiles' heart immediately jumps into his throat as he widens his eyes and points at the phone against his own ear frantically. Lydia just keeps smirking. "Is this--? Sorry, this must be the wrong number," the voice continues.

"No! No, no, no - this is Stiles. Uh, hi. Hello. Who is this?" Even though he knows exactly who it is.

"Oh. Great, hey. It's, uh, Derek."

Stiles covers the microphone with a palm and whispers, "It's Derek," to Lydia, who has come closer to listen to this train wreck unfold. She lifts both eyebrows elegantly at him, but of course she knew.

"Stiles?" comes Derek's growling voice again, and Stiles realizes that he's just been breathing into the phone, trying to contain the fluttering hummingbird in his chest, and thinking about Derek's hands and jawline.

"Yeah?" he answers again, voice coming out in a squeak. "I mean." He clears his throat. "What's up?"

Lydia is extremely unhelpful and makes some very grown-up gestures with her fingers and hands. Stiles' entire face seems to heat and bloom rouge-pink. "I just, uh, had a good time last weekend," Derek says into the phone, words feeling like they're taking some effort to form. "Did you?"

"Of course! Yeah, it was great. Thanks so much for the game, you know. Even though baseball's not my thing. I mean, it was still fun even though it wasn't my thing. Not that I don't like sports. I do. Like sports. But you know that. So what I mean to say that it was fun because you're pretty fun, I guess. So I had a good time with you. Wow, I'm just going to stop talking."

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder, exasperated, and mouths,  _you're hopeless_  at him before setting up for the morning rush, which is due in about half and hour. If they time it right, Isaac will just be coming back from deliveries to help.

"Well, good," Derek says, relieved. "Good."

Then, silence. Stiles' taps his toes against the floor, buzzing with nervous energy.

An intake of breath at the other end. "Listen, what are you doing tonight?"

Stiles' response is immediate. "Nothing." Then, just so he doesn't sound desperate, he amends, "I mean, some of my friends are going out later to dinner but it's not like, a big deal."

Out to dinner with friends really just means ordering pizza in with Scott and Isaac and playing Call of Duty until well into the night.

"Okay, well. I was wondering - and you can say no. Since you've got your friends. I mean," Derek offers, hesitant. His next words come out in a rush of breath. "Want to get dinner with me?"

Stiles squeaks, "Like  _dinner_ , dinner?"

A pause. Derek says, "Is there more than one kind?"

"No." Stiles worries at a nail between his teeth. "I mean, like a dinner date, dinner?" His heart is going to explode from his chest and he's not going to be able to have any dinners with anyone ever again.

But then Derek says, "Yeah, like a dinner date, dinner," and it's not so bad.

Stiles' smile splits his face, but Derek can't see it over the phone. "Sounds good," he tries to say evenly, even though his body is now full of jitters.

Derek gives him a time and place for them to meet and they hang up. Lydia says, "You know, this could have happened sooner."

Stiles says, sappy, and over-dramatic, "No. This was perfect," and Lydia rolls her eyes at him but refrains from throwing a dirty rag into his face.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slower after this. Sorry :( 
> 
> Thanks in advance for your patience!


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia makes him go back to his apartment first to change before meeting Derek. "Those pants are hideous," she tells him, wrinkling her nose at them. "And you can't wear a t-shirt on your first date."

"But I thought the Mets game was our first date?" Stiles shoots back, just to be a snot.

His friend levels him with a stare. "Do you want him to ask you out again, or do you want this to be the last time you ever see him?"

In the end he wears "those jeans that make your ass look tight" and "that shirt that makes you look like a hipster coffee shop barista," to which he points out that a) they live in Williamsburg, and b) they have a bakery, so he in fact kind of is a hipster coffee shop barista. "But you rarely ever dress the part," Lydia complains.

He leaves the glasses he'll sometimes wear when he's trying to make an impression at home, but shoves his beanie into the back pocket of his jeans in case it gets chilly.

Derek is already waiting when he makes the short trip to the restaurant, a small French cafe on a corner right near the Bedford stop on the L. There's a low iron fence around the restaurant to delineate the border for alfresco dining, and an umber-shaded awning with the restaurant's name in simple block print hanging over the sidewalk. The inside is cast in a golden, warm glow, and Derek stands in the spilled light, shoulders straight and hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

It's kind of an amazing power-stance, and Stiles also kind of wants to climb him like a tree.

Derek grins when he catches sight of Stiles, sharp-toothed and uninhibited, and the force of it catches Stiles off-guard.

"Hey," he greets when he's reached Derek, and then there's a bit of awkward shuffling and elbows where they're not supposed to be as they negotiate whether or not they're just shaking hands or going for a hug. In the end Stiles settles for a one-armed side hug.

"Hey. You look--" Derek's voice catches on the last word. He says, "Different."

Stiles' mouth pinches in the beginnings of a frown. He looks down at himself, examining his own body for defects or signs of disease. "Yeah," he acknowledges. "It's the flannel."

"Nah." And then Derek actually reaches out and hovers his hand over Stiles' hair, barely tickling, but Stiles can feel it. "It's the hair. I think you actually brushed?"

"Oh, ha ha," Stiles scowls. "Great tactic, Derek. Invite a guy out to dinner just to insult him. That'll go over well."

Derek smirks. Asshole.

Stiles kind of likes it.

"You're still coming in, right?" Derek has the audacity to ask, gesturing into the restaurant. It really is a cute place, reminds Stiles of that diner where Amelie was a waitress in the movie. It's packed with couples and friend-groups, and buzzing with low-level conversation.

"I guess, since you're paying," Stiles returns loftily, and there is Derek's sharp-toothed grin again, sending a jolt down Stiles' spine that ends with him curling his toes into his shoes.

It kind of sets the mood for the night, Stiles realizes. He's seen Derek soft and warm and languid by the diamond, but after the sun's down it seems there's a different Derek waiting to be discovered. This Derek matches Stiles' sarcasm shot for shot, has a wicked grin tucked into the corner of his mouth, a deep, throaty laugh. Underneath the leather jacket he's wearing the purple henley that Stiles first saw him in, and the color makes his eyes suck the light from the room.

They snag a table right next to the large windows in front, so when Stiles looks out he can watch the sky turn from pink to violet to inky blue. Inside, there's exposed brick along one wall decorated with vintage-style French posters of various shows and bands, and piles of liquor along the opposite wall behind the bar. The place is small, cramped but homey, the kind of cafe that throws up black chalkboards and writes the soup du jour in stylized script and puts up pictures in black and white of famous people eating in their establishment.

"Do you like seafood?" Derek asks him cautiously once they've settled and have the menus in front of them. Stiles looks and sees that half of the menu is fish or mussels.

"Sure," Stiles offers graciously with a shrug. He's impartial to it, really. He remembers when he started to eat more of it back home, when he was trying to convince his dad to lay off the red meat.

Derek does not look convinced. His jaw tightens. "That's definitive," he says morosely.

Sensing a fork in the development of the night, Stiles hastily adds, "No, it's really fine. You are extremely lucky, my man. Because I will try anything twice." He pauses, lips curling. "There's literally nothing I won't put in my mouth."

Derek's eyes flicker down and back up again, and his own lips part minutely. Stiles puts his elbows on the table, smug. He licks his lips, too, because he can.

Then Derek ducks his head and looks at Stiles from beneath his lashes and growls, low and hot and playful, "But do you always swallow, too?" and Stiles' elbow slips as another shock of arousal lances through him suddenly. His eyes linger on the broad-knuckled fingers Derek has curled loosely around the edge of the menu. He gulps.

A shadow falls over them and he groans at the interruption. "You guys ready to order?" their waiter inquires uncertainly, looking between the two. "I'm Matt and I'll be helping you out tonight."

Stiles pulls at the collar of his shirt which is suddenly too tight around his neck. It's warm inside the restaurant, and he feels flushed. Derek murmurs something at Matt that Stiles can't quite catch, and then Matt is nodding and taking the menus from them both.

"What?" Derek asks innocently at Stiles' silence.

Stiles flaps his hand at him, a little flustered. Someone comes by to place two glasses of red wine onto their table. "Maybe it's a little early in the evening for talk like that," he says, taking the glass by the stem and tipping it at Derek slightly.

Derek's returning grin is positively wolfish. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Under the table, Derek extends a leg, and he watches Stiles draw his bottom lip between his teeth when their ankles brush together.

.

They pass the time waiting for their food to arrive by making small talk. As a general rule, Stiles has never been that excellent at small talk - he babbles enough that small talk inevitably turns into inquisitive conversation about world views and family and life - so by the time the appetizers, a basket of crusty bread and a wooden slab topped with various cheeses, are placed in front of them, topics have meandered down the road toward childhood and all the twists and turns that accompany it.

Derek hasn't had an easy life, is basically what Stiles gets from the conversation, two glasses of wine in and working on his third. His parents passed away when he was young from a car accident, and then his uncle Peter had raised him and his sisters, Laura and Cora. Eventually Peter married and had the twins. Derek was born in New York, spent some time out in California for school, and then returned to take up a position in Manhattan. When Stiles presses, though, Derek grows cagey about the job, shifting the focus onto Stiles instead.

So Stiles talks. He's good at it, and the wine makes his words flow into each other, finding connections and running along tangents, until he's told Derek about becoming Scott's best friend, about navigating his sexuality through college, about Danny, about Lydia being his first love and then transitioning into the sister he never had but always wanted. He tells him about how he worries about his dad, sometimes, and how he's getting on in Beacon Hills.

Derek makes 'I'm listening' noises in a way that feels like he's actually listening, and by the time their entrees come - moules frites and a clean-tasting pasta to share - the sky is dark and Stiles is thinking about the bed in his apartment.

Then Derek asks, "Which is worse?" and Stiles blinks, sleepy warmth giving way to interest. "A book based off a movie or a movie based off a book?"

Stiles twirls the pasta around his fork and shoves it into his mouth, scoffing. "Book off a movie," he says dismissively. "Next."

"No, it's your turn."

"Are you sure you want to play this game with me?" Stiles warns him. It's a fair warning; Scott never plays anymore with the same fervor that he used to, mostly because he could never get a word in edgewise once Stiles really got into justifying his answer, so he could never win the arguments. Not that they argued.

Derek smirks. "You can't be as bad as Laura. Do your worst."

Stiles does his worst.

They learn that Stiles likes spicier food, and that Derek goes through phases wherein he believes he can subsist on protein shakes. Derek hates birds; Stiles doesn't hate anything that has more than two legs. Stiles has, in fact, gone streaking at a public event and so, surprisingly, has Derek. "I had an interesting college experience," is all that Derek gives him about that. Stiles would rather die by drowning than any other way, but Derek would rather take a bullet to the head. You know, if he  _had_  to choose.

They have a bottle of wine finished between them and a second reaching its dredges, when dessert comes around. A warm apple crumble with a dollop of caramel ice cream on top that's sliding in between the pieces of dough.

Stiles cheers. Derek shushes him. Some of the other restaurant goers chuckle in their general direction. Aw, they're thinking. Young love.

Derek picks at the crumble and only eats the pastry bits. Stiles eats the rest, lips sticky with vanilla and cinnamon. He sucks his thumb into his mouth and catches the look Derek throws him, so he lets his teeth drag against his nail and it puts a little color in Derek's cheeks, finally. And if Stiles hooks an ankle around Derek's to tease his calf along his own, the other restaurant goers ignore it, and they share a grin.

It shouldn't surprise him, not after Danny, anyway, that Derek is a gentleman. That the leather jacket and stubble and dark colors cover up a guy who pays for dinner, shrugs his jacket over Stiles' shoulders when he shivers in the crisp air, who walks him home. Danny always said, though, that Stiles has that look about him. "You make people want to take care of you," he'd admitted. "And then you make them crazy. It alternates. It's the Bambi eyes."

The kiss that Derek drops onto his lips is brief, a hidden thing that seems more wish than reality, and Derek pulls back, uncertain, like Stiles hasn't been asking for all that and more all night. He glances behind him at the entrance to his apartment building.

"Wanna come up for a coffee?" Stiles asks him, and it's not liquid courage this late, not after the walk burned most of the alcohol from both of their systems.

Derek shifts, smiles, no longer uncertain. He says, "Not tonight," and takes back his jacket from Stiles' shoulders.

So it's like that, Stiles thinks, but he isn't upset about it. A little flutter makes itself known in his stomach. If Derek wants to do this slow, if he wants them to build into something rather than crash headfirst into things, Stiles can get behind that.

However, he's also had nearly a whole bottle of wine this evening and a heat circulating in his bones that just wants Derek to come up, come upstairs and strip and get into bed and press circles into his back and then just  _in_ , but he can play the waiting game. 

Theoretically.

Before Derek can turn to walk back to his own place, Stiles pulls on the sleeve of his arms, tugs him into another kiss that's deeper than the first, a little more needy. Derek comes away from it stunned and lips slightly parted and Stiles grins, triumphant. "Okay," he breathes against Derek's parted lips. "Good night."

.

He gets a call pretty much as soon as he steps through the doors of his apartment and flicks on the lights, and it's Scott hyperventilating at him at the other end. Stiles toes off his shoes and collapses face-first onto his bed, still warm and tingling from his moment outside with Derek. He lives alone in a small studio where the kitchen was supposed to be contained to one corner but has somehow crept its way out of its boundaries and into nearly every nook of his apartment save the bathroom.

"I'm going to be a horrible dad," Scott screams at him, voice distorted through the phone. "The worst. I don't know anything about taking care of kids - they're not like puppies, you know? At least, I don't think they are. I'm going to fail, Stiles. I'm going to fail my kid."

"What happened," Stiles mumbles into the phone. These freak outs happen every once in a while, ever since Allison got pregnant, but now they're starting to become a weekly occurrence.

"I'm going to ruin this kid's life," Scott groans.

"You're not. Stop freaking out. What happened?" Stiles flops over onto his back to stare up at his bare ceiling. Over the years he's covered some of the brick walls with art he's picked up from street vendors, and left around some potted plants all in varying stages of dying on his floor.

"I forgot to pick up the cookie dough ice cream Allison asked for," Scott moans miserably. "Again. She had a craving like two minutes ago and there was nothing in the freezer and she flipped a shit."

"I have a feeling that if your kid flips over ice cream you'll have a little bit more wiggle room when it comes to your response."

"My kid's going to hate me. I'm going to be that dad who never remembers to go to the little league games. You know the type." Scott's voice is low and solemn, and Stiles' heart aches for him, even though he's still riding the high of Derek's kiss. It's not Scott's fault that his dad left their family when he was really young, that he's never really had a father figure unless you count Stiles' dad. That doesn't matter, though, Stiles has been trying to tell him.

Scott's going to make an excellent father because he's an excellent person, who was raised by an excellent mother.

"You will remember every little league game and dance recital," Stiles promises him. "Especially since I'm going to be the kid's godfather and will actually never let you forget one, okay?"

The noise Scott makes can't be accurately categorized as sad or happy, just needy.

"I miss being your roommate," he whines. "I miss waking up to your pancakes and never having to worry about taking out the trash."

"Aw," Stiles coos. "How sweet."

"No, seriously, Stiles!" Scott suddenly yells into the phone, and Stiles winces, pulling it away from his ear. "I'm not cut out for this."

"No, you listen," Stiles says in his I-Am-Not-Negotiating voice that he picked up from his Sheriff father. He can't see it, but he can practically hear Scott's jaw snap shut. "You're going to be great. You're going to be an amazing dad, because you know exactly what it's like to have a shitty one, and you're such a great person that you're going to do whatever possible to make sure your kid doesn't have that experience. Allison is lucky to have you, dude. So stop complaining. Fatherhood is going to be awesome."

Scott breathes into the phone. When he speaks again, his voice is distinctly wobbly. "You're a good friend, Stiles."

"The greatest," Stiles corrects automatically.

"I hate that living in Queens is like living in another country."

"Me, too, buddy."

"I'm standing in the aisle with a basket filled with two tubs of ice cream, a bag of potato chips, a jar of pickles, three avocados that are out of season, and a bag of frozen kale," he lists. "I feel like a crazy person."

"You should pick up some butternut squash," Stiles suggests. "You know she's been wanting to eat some for a while."

"What would I do without you, man," Scott sighs into the phone. A moment passes while Scott supposedly makes the trip to pick up butternut squash, and Stiles puts the phone on speaker so that he can change into something a little more comfortable. He's pulling on some thin sweats when Scott asks, "So what's new with you?" in a tone that clearly conveys that he knows exactly what's new with Stiles.

Lydia talks to Allison about pretty much everything, and it's a known fact that between Allison and Scott, no secrets exist. Plus, Scott is horrible with subtlety.

"I met someone," Stiles sighs, speaking loud enough so that the microphone can pick up his words. He pulls out a t-shirt from his chest of drawers along one wall, where on its surface a television is balanced next to a stack of books, and shakes it out.

"Yeah? And?"

"And he's cool," Stiles says shortly. "He's, uh, got this leather jacket and stubble thing going on, and like seriously amazing eyes, and he's nice most of the time and sarcastic and he likes baseball."

"And you went on a dinner date," Scott finishes for him, and the way he says 'dinner date' is accented, and Stiles immediately assesses the situation.

"Lydia told you guys about my really embarrassing interaction over the phone with him, huh."

"She might have." 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Okay, yes. We went on a dinner date. It was this French place near both of us. He ordered really great food, and then he watched me eat dessert, and then he walked me home and even gave me his jacket to wear."

"That's so…" Scott begins, trailing off.

"Gentlemanly?" Stiles offers. "Sweet? Unexpected?"

"Virginal," Scott finishes.

"Harumph."

His friend laughs, the sound clear despite the phone. "Okay, okay. It's just -- it's been a while, right? I know you and Danny are okay, but like, I was worried about you for a while? When he left you were kind of depressed."

"I'm allowed to be." Stiles pulls on his shirt.

"I'm not saying you aren't! Just that I'm glad. That you met someone. Someone cool."

Stiles lips twitch into a smile. Yeah, Scott's going to be an amazing dad. They talk a little more about Derek and then about Allison and then about the baby that's due in a month. They're thinking of names, Scott tells him. It's terrifying.

.


	4. Chapter 4

He and Derek text, even though the lag time between each message makes it difficult to carry on a real conversation. Derek's got a demanding job, Stiles knows, and Stiles himself is often elbow-deep in flour and butter and loathe to touch his phone like that. They end up making a habit of snapping pictures and sharing them, often with some commentary. The last picture Derek had sent him was a view of the river and bridges, the sun setting and making the river glisten like fish scales, the skyline a stark contrast to the fiery light behind it.  _Late day at work_ , is the text that accompanies it.

He's so wrapped up in prep for the next morning's supply of baked breakfast goods - the part-timer they had hired called in sick unexpectedly for her shift, though Stiles had an inkling 'sick' really meant 'there's this paper that I haven't written yet that's due tomorrow for class', so he'd had to man the front with Isaac for the majority of the day - that he checks the message and slips the phone back into his back pocket, and completely forgets about it until around two in the morning, when he's finally done with the last of dough that's going to be some amazing scones in a couple of hours, and he texts back a picture of all the dough that's laid out on the slab in sections. He follows with the same message, grinning, and is surprised when he gets an immediate reply.

_babysitting the terrible twins tomorrow._

Stiles grins. Ethan and Aiden aren't terrible, he thinks. In his brief interaction with them he gets the feeling that they are really great kids who have no discipline enforced upon them ever, so they run rampant most of the time. Derek's incommunicative enough that he can imagine the twins' parents being similar - they are probably the sort to have a live-in nanny during the summer while in the Hamptons, so that the nanny can take care of them while the parents go off wine-tasting and yachting.

 _bring them over :)_ , Stiles replies. He can feed them cupcakes and play with them and then send them home with Derek amped up on sugar.

 _do u want your shop to burn down?_  He pictures the little brow-furrow that Derek is probably sporting with that text and chuckles, slowly cleaning up the kitchen area. He sent Isaac home around one with the promise that he would drink no more energy drinks even without Isaac hovering over his shoulder.

 _i'll hide the matches_ , Stiles sends back.  _i'll make cupcakes that are laced with ambien._

_somehow i don't think peter will like that._

.

Derek brings Ethan and Aiden over in the morning, after Stiles has gotten maybe four hours of sleep before returning to actually put everything in ovens and such, and he knows there are shadows under his eyes as he drags the sleeves of his hoodie down over his fingers and greets Derek with a hug and quick, dry peck on the lips. Derek beams at him in response.

Their part-timer, Tiff, is back in, and she rolls her eyes at them. "PDA does not belong in front!" she calls out from behind the register, ringing up her current customer. Isaac hands the customer a paper bag with a muffin inside.

"Don't you have a paper you should be writing?" Stiles returns, pointing Derek and the twins to the sofa in front.

She says, "I'll have you know, I was  _sick_  and definitely not writing a paper, and also the paper is finished and turned in anyway so I don't know why you're worrying."

Derek sits, sinking back into the cushions, which surprises Stiles. He'd thought Derek would be the type to sit stiffly, always ready to run at a moment's notice. But the twins don't sit. They're staring at the display case openly. They both walk up to it, pressing their faces and hands against the glass.

Lydia, who's taken over a corner of the shop and spread her army of papers over a small round table while she pecks efficiently away at her laptop, says, "That's not hygienic."

When the twins don't move, she repeats, "That's  _unhygienic_  and you have three seconds to take one step back. 3, 2--"

The twins step back before she reaches one, equal looks of indignation on their small faces. Today, one twin is dressed in a t-shirt with Captain America's shield bright in front, and the other with Superman's emblem. Lydia goes back to her laptop, ignoring them, even when they traipse up to her, wonder in their eyes. Stiles sits down next to Derek, biting his lip.

He isn't sure what level of intimacy they've reached quite yet, since they've only been on 1.5 dates, but Derek surprises him again by wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him back with him on the couch. He's warm when they lean against each other, and Derek smells like aftershave. His heart skips.

"Are you the dragon lady?" Captain America twin asks Lydia after another few moments of ignoring. Tiff chokes on a laugh.

"Wow," Superman twin breathes. Lydia squints at them, finally giving them some more attention.

"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment," she tells them quickly. "Because if it's not a nice thing to say about a lady then there will be consequences."

Captain America - Stiles is pretty sure that one's Ethan - blanches. He sticks his tongue out and makes a face. The other, Aiden, defends, "It's a nice thing! The dragon lady is a queen!"

"Oh my god," Stiles realizes, trying not to curl like a kitten into the way Derek's rubbing his thumb against Stiles' pulse at his neck, "you let them watch Game of Thrones?"

Derek stops with the petting and Stiles gives a grunt of discontent. The circles start up again. Outside, the sun is slanting in through their front windows and warming their spot on the couch. He really does feel like a kitten. It would be nice to draw his knees up and just fall asleep like this. He promises himself that, tonight, he will be sleeping more than five hours. Six, even.

" _I_  don't let them watch," Derek mumbles with the air of the accused. "They're not supposed to watch that show. I know Peter watches it, though. So maybe sometimes he forgets the twins are in the room."

"That show has more sex in it than hardcore porn," Stiles whispers into Derek's ear.

Derek smirks. "I know."

Meanwhile, Aiden and Ethan are telling Lydia about the Queen Dragon Lady and how they're glad that she has red hair in real life and not blonde, because red is like fire, and fire is like dragons, and that makes more sense.

"So how was your week?"

They talk about nothing, and Stiles gets lost in the minutia of Derek's life: his conflict with a coworker, a contract that had ambiguous wording, a lunch meeting that was canceled. He sounds important, and then he sounds faraway, and Stiles is warm and the world slow-moving.

A loud roar startles him from where he is napping on the couch, his head tucked into the space between Derek's neck and shoulder, his legs drawn up and over Derek's lap.

Oh, how embarrassing. He would have rather not had Derek know immediately of his habit of sleeping in odd positions, but Derek seems to have taken it all in stride. His hand rests over Stiles' knee, easy and sure, and his breathing is slow and steady.

It was Isaac who roared. The twins shriek, laughing, as Isaac pretends his hands are claws and he bares his teeth, chasing them. The twins immediately turn tail and leap onto the couch, landing with sprawling limbs on top of Derek and Stiles.

"Oof!" Stiles gets a small knee in his gut and doubles up, and the twins cackle.

"Dragon! Dragon!" they accuse Isaac of being, pointing and climbing over the two adults. Derek's face gets squashed by a hand, and then the twins are both somehow sitting on top of his shoulders.

"Not a dragon," Isaac says. "A Lannister!" He growls again, and Ethan ducks behind Stiles as best as he can, squirming until he fits between Stiles and the couch.

Stiles rolls his eyes at all of them. Dorks.

Lydia is still sitting at her table, twirling a pen between her fingers. She smirks at him. "Getting pretty comfortable there, Stilinski," she says low enough for Derek not to hear, since he's occupied by the writhing boy that is Aiden.

"What happened that sent this bakery down into chaos?" he returns instead of acknowledging the comment. Too soon, maybe. He reaches behind him to draw Ethan into his lap. He bubbles with laughter even as Isaac gives up his game and turns back to the kitchen. Tiff is already back behind the register.

"I may have told the twins that I am the Mother of Dragons but obviously I couldn't have real live dragons in New York, so they had to change shape and pass as people."

"So, Isaac and Tiff?"

Lydia nods. "They wanted to be the Starks. So you and Derek are their wolves."

"Wolves, huh?" Derek says, listening again. And then he lifts Aiden from his shoulders and turns him around and nuzzles his face into Aiden's neck, tickling him, ending the exchange with a loud raspberry. Aiden convulses with giggles.

It's the  _most adorable thing he has ever seen_.

"Me, too!"

Ethan plasters himself to Stiles' front, arms coming up to latch on around his neck. "Me, too!" he insists again.

Stiles blows a raspberry into his neck, and earns a happy yelp in response. He gets more enthusiastic when Ethan fidgets, blowing raspberries when and where he can on the small couch, and when he looks up again it's to see Derek and Aiden wearing matching expressions of wonder on their faces.

"What?" Stiles huffs, a little breathless, his lips buzzing. Ethan clutches at Stiles' shoulders, pushing his nose into Stiles' chest.

"You're fun," he tells Stiles.

"Thank you," Stiles replies, because he has manners.

"No, like really fun!" Ethan shouts, drawing himself up and back. He gestures wildly at Aiden. "Even Aiden thinks so! And Aiden is a poopy who doesn't like anyone."

"Ethan!" Aiden whines, drawing out the name of his brother. "You said you wouldn't tell!"

Meanwhile Derek is lifting his eyebrows at Stiles, smirking. They are sitting very close together, still, on the couch, the twins within arms reach of each other. Stiles meets Derek's eyes, sees the warmth there.

"What about Derek, huh?" He bounces Ethan a little on his knee. A customer comes in, chiming a bell. She walks purposefully to the counter. "What does Derek think?"

For this Ethan deems it appropriate to climb up until his lips are right by Stiles' ear, and he dramatically whispers into it, "I think he likes you more than we like you."

Derek flushes pink to the tip of his nose.

"Is that possible?" Stiles asks Ethan with mock-alarm, raising his eyebrows for effect.

"That's what I said!" Aiden interrupts, and then he tackle-hugs his brother and they both tumble from Stiles' lap, thankfully landing on their bums and not their heads.

Apparently that conversation is over. They amble over to Lydia, who is studiously doing paperwork now, and shoots them a serious look that deters them from taking a step closer to their dragon queen. Ethan settles for looking longingly into the display again, while Aiden runs his fingers across every table top in the bakery.

Stiles turns back to Derek. His face is much closer than he remembered, but he doesn't pull back. Derek's breath ghosts against his cheek. This close, his eyes take on every shade he can think of.

Stiles swallows. The sun slants in through the windows, throwing shadows across Derek's face, making it seem simultaneously more angular and soft. He's crazy beautiful, Stiles thinks.

"I like you, too," he blurts, words disappearing into the sun beam.

Derek smiles. It's lovely. 

"Good," he says between them. Then he closes the distance with a tiny kiss.

.

Derek takes the twins out to the park nearby after Stiles gives them all a couple of croissants and juices for the trip. "So now you're packing our lunches, huh?" is what Derek said when Stiles handed him the box and bag of drinks.

Stiles looks to Derek, looks to the twins. He imagines lazy mornings in the kitchen, making sandwiches and cutting off the crusts as Ethan slurps up milk from the bottom of his cereal bowl and Aiden rips into bacon. He thinks, that could be a thing he could do.

When they leave and Stiles is watching them all walk or skip off just outside the door, waving every time someone turns around to catch him lingering, Lydia shuffles her papers around and meets him, a sly but warm presence at his shoulder. She hums, crosses her arms, smiles a slow smile.

"Don't say it," Stiles tells her from the corner of his mouth, which is still grinning. "I know."

She hums again, walks away with her hips swaying. "Okay. Now get back to work."

He's never quite fallen so fast.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter sorry uwu


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments uwu

After that it's like the universe doesn't want them to catch a break. At least, not together.

They make do with long text conversations and stolen minutes over the phone, and more often than not Stiles finds himself falling asleep to Derek's voice in his ear as he tells him stories about his family, about the twins.

His sister Cora is around Stiles' age, he learns, and lives out in California, making a living molding people's bodies into the shapes they desire. To this day Derek still doesn't quite know what Laura does, but it requires a lot of traveling, and she'll often turn up unexpected at Peter's home to whisk the twins away for a day-trip. 

It works, their family.

Some people don't get it.

Stiles tells him he doesn't understand how people don't get it. His family seems so supportive, and close, and wonderful.

"Sometimes it makes it difficult," Derek tells him haltingly over the phone. "To date."

"Oh. I guess I...could see that," Stiles tells him. Only he can't. He really can't.

So he tells him about his own family, about his father the Sheriff and his mother the teacher. She taught elementary school for a while, before she got sick. Her sickness had been aggressive, and swift. Stiles likes to think that it hadn't been too painful for too long. She had also rolled Stiles his first joint, but this he does not share with Derek.

Besides which, weed is not really a part of his life anymore, anyway.

Every once in a while Derek will call from his uncle Peter's house, and one of the twins will scream in the background, and Derek will let them wrestle the phone away from him. Ethan or Aiden (though it's more often Ethan) will babble into the receiver until Derek returns. announcing that it's the twins' bedtime.

They meet up once for drinks, and then another time at the park on a whim, when Derek was taking the twins out on a play date with some other pre-kindergarten children in their neighborhood.

It's so sweet that Stiles can barely stand it, and so different from his relationship with Danny.

He hadn't been sure where he stood with Danny for a long time while they were together. They were alternatively casual, then committed, then casual again. It had been fun, if not confusing. In the end Stiles thinks that it was the casualness of it all that did them both in. Danny is a laid-back sort of guy, and neither of them could muster up the sort of… _passion_  that he naturally seems to have with Derek. Plus they'd both been busy, setting up their lives in New York. Though, Stiles supposes, Danny had been less busy, since he'd ultimately decided not to stay.

He's thinking of this one early morning at the bakery, scones in the oven and coffee on the counter. He stirs cream in idly with one hand, leaning against the countertop in front. Isaac is wiping down tables, while Lydia counts the cash in the register.

"Adorable," Lydia coos, somehow having come close enough to him without his being aware to flick him lightly on the nose.

Stiles startles, thoughts of Derek dissipating. He wrinkles his nose at her. "Can you not?"

"You are so far gone," she teases. "I know you're thinking about him; go on - what now? What new thing have you learned about Derek would you like to share with the class?"

Isaac groans, slumping over in his cleaning efforts. "No more, oh my God. If I have to hear one more time how perfect Derek's chin is, or how many different colors are his eyes, I will stuff you in the oven, Stiles. I really will."

"Well," Stiles hedges, because he had been thinking, about one thing in particular, thinking to bursting, and he glances between Lydia and Isaac with growing kinetic energy, because now he's  _actively_  thinking about it, and Isaac sighs. He must see how Stiles is drumming his fingers against the mug of coffee, the brightness in his eyes. Stiles laughs, quick and aborted, colored with embarrassment.

"Go on," Isaac relents, sounding very put-upon indeed. Lydia has set herself up comfortably against the counter, purveying over them both almost regally.

"Well," Stiles says again. "Okay. When we went to the park last week, he did the most adorable thing. I don't understand how a grown man can be this adorable and  _single_. Before me, I mean. Because he's definitely not single, now." And once Stiles starts speaking he finds the words tumble out of him without break.

"Ethan and Aiden were playing on the swings, right? And they were taking turns and generally behaving, but then Aiden fell and skinned his knee, and you could tell from his little face that he was trying really hard not to cry, and then Derek ducked down with him and told him it was okay to cry, sometimes crying was a thing adults did, too. And then he brushed off Aiden's knee and blew kisses all over it. Like, ridiculous, stupid kisses. And by the end of it Aiden was laughing, not crying, and it was  _so cute_.

How? I'm experiencing cognitive dissonance. He's just so -- God, it's like if you programmed a computer to build you the perfect man - handsome and funny and smart and family-oriented. Oh, and queer," Stiles finishes, looking down at the mug in his hands and finding it empty. He'd finished his coffee. "And I just stood there gaping at him and Ethan had to come over and kick me in the shin so that I would pay attention to him. Like,  _seriously_. What even."

"That's…pretty cute," Isaac admits.

"You think so too, right?" Stiles asks, a little hysterically. He knows he's really far gone on Derek, but he also needs affirmation that he's not crazy.

"I think so, too. Except my perfect man would be a woman," Isaac agrees solemnly. 

"And now that Derek is out of your system," Lydia interrupts. "I can tell you about the wedding order we just received!" She cheers. Stiles groans. "No, you see," Lydia continues, forcing her way through it. "It's good. Our first wedding order! They want a tower of little cakes. I'll write up specifics."

Lydia smiles her perfect smile, lips red and shiny, and Stiles asks with some amount of dread when the wedding is. With his luck, it's at the end of the week and he'll need to modify his schedule with Isaac to make sure it gets done.

"Their baker fell through," Lydia begins slowly, easing them all into it. "So, the wedding's in two weeks. Don't panic!" She holds out an authoritative hand at Stiles' and Isaac's open mouths, both on the brink of protesting. "That is way more time than necessary. We'll be fine. Breathe."

Stiles closes his mouth. He gets a text from Derek just then, asking if he's free for dinner in two days. He sighs. Doesn't seem like it, and he responds to Derek in kind.

.

They are fine. The next two weeks is flooded in designs and tastings, consistency testings and whipping up dozens of batches of varied icings for the bride and groom to sample. One day Stiles opens up the bakery to find Isaac asleep on the couch, covered in flour and muttering about butter-to-sugar ratios. 

All in all, it's a huge success, but they work down to the very wire, setting up the tower of little cakes just as the first guests are arriving at the wedding in on the lovelier gardens in Central Park. 

He snaps a picture of the finished product and sends it to Derek, who congratulates him on a job well done. He apparently shows the cake to his cousins, because minutes later Stiles is driving the Jeep back to Brooklyn, Isaac staring out the window in a state of half-consciousness, and he gets a call from them, their voices loud over the phone.

There's a lot of excited screaming and some whining when Stiles puts them on speaker, wincing, and then finally Derek is on the phone and he says, "We miss you."

Stiles says, "You, too," smiling to himself. Isaac snaps out of his fugue state for a moment to flick the back of his head.

"Sap," he accuses.

"Don't be jealous," Stiles teases, before they hang up.

.

When Scott visits the bakery with a heavily-pregnant Allison in tow, Stiles is legitimately surprised, because it feels like he hasn't seen Scott in  _years_.

And he looks great, if not a little worn around the edges. His friend is sporting scruff that's definitely over a day old, and he's wearing the sweats and t-shirt combo that Stiles had come to associate with hangover-brunches in greasy spoon diners in college. But he smiles his Scott-smile, and Stiles crushes him in a hug, putting flour down Scott's front from his apron. 

Behind him, Allison is rubbing at her belly almost absently, standing with her weight evenly on her heels. She's wearing her sweats, too, and her wavy dark hair is piled up high on her head in a messy bun. She's  _glowing_. "Hey, stranger," she says to Stiles sweetly, who lets Scott go to give Allison a kiss on her cheek, which she accepts graciously. 

Isaac gives them much less enthusiastic greetings, but the warmth is there all the same. 

"Can I?" Stiles asks the couple, looking between them, his hand outstretched towards Allison. Allison nods. Stiles places his hand over her belly and feels a little tingle go up his spine. She's warm, and then the baby kicks.

"Aw, she likes you," Allison whispers, smile taking over her face. 

"She?" Stiles responds immediately. "She? You know - you went for it?"

Isaac guides Allison then to one of the chairs, and she sinks down onto it. Scott nods.

"We wanted to tell you in person. And we know you can never get away from here, so." He shrugs. "Surprise?"

"Holy shit," Stiles says. "Holy shit!" He doesn't quite know what to do with his limbs, so he pumps both fists into the air. Victory?

Victory, Stiles' mind affirms, when Scott holds out his arms again, and Stiles crashes into him - again - ecstatic for his friend and his friend's wife and, yeah, life is pretty beautiful, and that's when Derek walks through the door.

"This is like the best day," Stiles cries, sudden shock at seeing Derek making his arms tighten around Scott's middle. "Congratulations!" he tells his best friend. "Thank you for coming, oh my God. It's a girl. I'm going to be the best god-parent, I swear. You're going to the best dad. And mom. She's going to have all of our best qualities. It's going to be so great."

"Did I just unknowingly sign up for a polyamorous relationship?" Allison laughs from her seat.

"Hello, Derek," Stiles says slowly, willing his arms to release Scott. They do. Scott takes an exaggerated breath and ruffles Stiles' hair, fond. "And don't pretend you didn't know that going into this," he continues, addressing Allison and gesturing between himself and Scott. "I would do anything for this man. And that includes entering into a hetero-relationship with his wife for the sake of raising his kid."

"Glad to hear it," Allison comments, grinning.

"I'll just come back, then, shall I?" Derek asks, amused and teasing, and no. Not happening. He's wearing his leather jacket and he's got stubble and he looks  _even better_  than Stiles' remembered him, which should be impossible.

"Derek!" he nearly shouts, mind struggling to catch up with everything that's going on around him. "This is Scott. And Allison. They are having a baby. Scott is my brother from another mother. They're having a baby girl. We're going to raise her into the perfect warrior princess. It's going to be great."

"So," Derek drawls. "Later, then."

He turns to go, obviously joking, but that still doesn't stop Stiles from actually leaping from where he's standing next to Scott to grab onto Derek's wrist, tugging him back into the center of the shop. Then he forces Derek and his best friend to shake hands. Scott looks on, amused. "You must be Derek Hale," Scott says.

"You must be Scott McCall," Derek returns in kind.

"And I'm Isaac Lahey," Isaac contributes with as much sarcasm as he can muster from near Allison. Then he gestures to Allison. "And this is Allison Argent-McCall."

The thing Derek's face does then is...troublesome. Just a little flicker before it's replaced by a smooth and slick smile, one that Stiles is accustomed to seeing. But Stiles doesn't miss the look, just files it away for something to ask about later, when they aren't in the presence of awesome company.

Speaking of:

"Oh. Oh, man. Lydia's not here. Were you hoping to tell her, too?"

It's almost unnoticeable, the way he and Derek's bodies shift until they are side by side, Stiles fitting neatly under Derek's arm. So maybe he had also physically lifted Derek's arm to loop around his shoulders, but Stiles is a tactile person, and Derek doesn't seem to mind. His arm hugs him a little closer.

"We can go by her apartment later, or something," Allison says offhand. "Where is she, anyway?"

"She's meeting up with some potential big customers. Yeah, you know that wedding we did recently? I guess it was a pretty important wedding. Got some publicity. Now there's like a whole list of people who want us to do cakes or desserts for their events. It's great, but it's also, ah." He looks to Derek, apologetic. "Time consuming."

Scott frowns. He shoos Isaac away so that he can take the chair next to Allison, and once he's sitting Allison immediately reaches out and laces their fingers together, Scott's hand drawn over her lap. "Stiles, man, you mean you guys are going to be busier than you already are?"

"Do you ever get any time off?"

"No," Derek tells them, shaking Stiles a little. "You work more hours than I do, and I work in  _finance_."

"You're working hours also consist of playing golf with business partners and boozing it up with the board. Don't make that face. I know you do this." Stiles points at his face accusingly.

"Still." Derek shrugs. The action dislodges his arm a little bit from his shoulders, and then he removes it completely. "I actually came by because the twins have been craving your cupcakes. I don't even know how they remember what they taste like, but they want  _your_  cupcakes specifically. I have to get over there in a few."

"Oh," Stiles says, disappointed that Derek isn't staying.

"And you," Derek adds with a sly grin. "Obviously I came by to see you."

"Oh," Stiles says again, adjusting the front of Derek's jacket with both hands. He can't look up into Derek's eyes, because he know if he does, he'll subject Scott and Allison and Isaac to some extremely inappropriate visuals.

He hears Scott stage-whisper to Allison, "Were we this bad when we first started dating?" and Allison shushes him, laughing.

He tells Isaac to stay in front in case customers come in, and brings Derek into the back with him to pick out some cupcakes that haven't made it to the shelves yet. And if he has some ulterior motives to bringing Derek into the private space in the back, no one else has to know.

Derek leaves the bakery with a half-dozen and leaves Stiles with a warm spot on his neck, near his jugular, which he can't help but rub at when they re-emerge into the front of the bakery. It's not a hickey, because they're older now, and professionals, but it's probably red, and suddenly Stiles wishes it  _were_  a hickey, because then everyone would know. He wants everyone to know.

Scott tells him that Derek looks like a demi-god sent down from Mt. Olympus and would completely understand if Stiles wanted to bring him into their polyamorous fold. This is why he is Stiles' best friend.

Allison swats at Scott for his comment, but doesn't disagree. "He looks familiar," Allison murmurs, after Stiles has supplied them all with a snack of scones and tea - decaffeinated for Allison, of course. "He said he worked in finance?"

"Yeah," Stiles affirms, thinking back now to the look that had crossed Derek's features at Allison's introduction. It was a look that was hard to pin down. Uncertainty and anger, regret and betrayal. And underneath it all, fear.

Stiles looks at Allison's beautiful, glowing face, a luminescence to her now from her pregnancy. There's nothing to fear from her, he thinks.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He manages a whole day without taking any sort of rash action, before he finally Googles him.

Of course, after Allison's comment and Derek's strange reaction, Stiles is curious about who the guy he's dating is - at least, who Derek Hale is to the outside world.

He manages a whole day without taking any sort of rash action, before he finally Googles him.

The results are surprisingly slim. He's on his phone in the lull between lunch and early afternoon, weeding out results that turn up for a Derek Hale who lives in Oklahoma, when he finds the website to a large firm in Manhattan that lists Derek as one of their senior managing directors, global equities.

Stiles doesn't even know what global equities  _means_. He procrastinates clicking on Derek's headshot, which looks like it was taken recently, by reading the bios of other managing directors in the firm.

They all boast big name colleges and universities, international experience, involvement in philanthropic organizations. Most have two or three paragraphs' worth of impressive accolades. There's another Hale in the list of staff to the side - Felicia Hale - but her name doesn't link to anything.

Finally, he clicks on Derek's picture and waits for the page to load.

_Derek Hale was made Senior Managing Director, Global Equities, at Riverwood, Inc. in 2012._

And that's it.

He reads it again, incredulous.

Stiles very nearly throws his phone into the basket of muffins on the counter in frustration. How can that be it?

Every other senior manager has a biopic written on their behalf, and Derek has a measly sentence about his recent promotion. Someone clearly isn't doing their job.

So Stiles does a little more research, digs in a little deeper. He can't shake the desire to know everything about Derek that he knows now about some of Derek's colleagues - where they went to school, what they did before Riverwood, where they donate their money. He wonders, briefly, if  _he_  could be considered the receipt of Derek's philanthropic duties. But then he laughs, because there's  _no way_  he's going down that road.

So he loses it a little in the research process, and by the time he's incorrectly made a returning customer her less-foam, single-pump, caramel double-shot, nonfat latte, he's got a number for Derek's assistant, someone by the name of Erica Reyes who doesn't get a picture on the website, and he's got the beginnings of a plan.

.

Erica sounds like the kind of lady who is not going to take any of his bullshit when Stiles first talks to her over the phone.

"You've reached the office of Derek Hale, Erica speaking. What can I do for you?" She sounds bored, her voice low and verging on sultry.

"Hello," Stiles says, stalling.

"Hello," Erica says, now sounding amused. "Who's calling?"

"This is Stiles. I've, uh. This is my first time calling."

"I'm aware," Erica says. Toying with him. He imagines a very Derek Hale-worthy smirk on her face.

"I'm just - okay, this could be weird? But I - I kind of wanted to surprise Derek. I'm his, ah. The guy he's seeing? On a regular basis? In a romantic sense. Not just like seeing around in a creepy sense. You know. Anyway, I was hoping he had a lunch hour or something free sometime next week."

"He might," Erica allows enigmatically. "Are you the reason why he always has his entire Saturdays blocked off on his calender for the foreseeable future?"

Stiles flushes at that. "I might be," he returns to her.

"Will you come to the office?"

"Yeah, I thought I would come by, yell surprise, and then we could eat lunch in the park or something."

"What's for lunch?"

"I don't know yet. Soup? Does Derek like soup?"

"He doesn't  _not_ like it. Also, don't you think you should bring some extra muffins, cookies, you know. Things with chocolate in them."

Realization clicks. "Are you asking for a bribe?"

"Oh, look at that. Derek has an hour open next Wednesday. Hope that other meeting I'm trying to schedule doesn't need to take up that hour."

"Things with chocolate in them," Stiles repeats, just to be sure. He hears the clicking of keys as Erica types something presumably into Derek's electronic calendar.

"I like dark," Erica informs him sweetly.

"One extra box of assorted baked goods, no problem. My pleasure."

"Wednesday, 1 to 2:30pm. You have our address? The receptionist will let you in. Come up to the 43rd floor."

"You're amazing," Stiles tells her, milking it. "Beautiful. I will do that, those things. Wonderful."

"You smooth-talker." She laughs. "I've got another call coming in. We good?"

"We're good. So good. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

The thing is, she sounds genuinely pleased to have done this for Stiles, for Derek. Stiles resolves to bake her the most incredible chocolate-chocolate cookies he has ever baked.

.

Turns out that Derek has the Saturday blocked off because he's going up to the Hamptons with his family.

Of course he is.

They talk, Derek hints that maybe Stiles could join them next time, and the sun sets for the both of them while Stiles tells Derek a long and convoluted story about how this one time he and Scott went on a road trip and got lost for about a week in what Stiles refers to as The American Desert but was really just Nevada.

Wednesday can't come soon enough, and when it does, it seems like fate smiles down upon him.

He makes it so that the deliveries he has scheduled for Wednesday get him out before noon and back after 4pm, and in the meantime both Isaac and Tiff are there, with Lydia supervising and basically unaware that Stiles is taking an extended lunch.

Whatever. He deserves it. And what Lydia doesn't know won't hurt her.

So he packs the two thermoses full of hot homemade Italian Wedding soup and mini bags of potato chips into a pack and brings that out with the two deliveries to the Jeep. Thankfully it's a one-man job. Four medium-sized boxes total, one extra box for Erica, and the packed lunch, and then he goes.

He takes care of the deliveries, first, of course.

And then he nearly runs over an old man trying to cross the street on a green light. The old man flicks him off, and inches his way slowly through the pedestrian walkway.

Awesome.

Then looking for parking nearly drives Stiles to tears. He finally manages to find a space a few blocks away from where Derek's building is located, but only after nudging a Toyota a few inches forward with his Jeep as he squeezes into the spot. 

Riverwood, Inc. occupies a nice corner building with a huge lobby that has floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall, and separate reception desks for each company residing at the address. Everything has a slight blue tint to it when Stiles enters, and it's almost pleasant, and calm. Not quite what Stiles was expecting out of a financial firm. The elevators are in neat rows behind turnstile-type entrances manned by severe-looking security guards, but when Stiles walks up to the Riverwood desk, the receptionist sitting behind there gives him a bright smile.

She looks young, maybe fresh out of college, with her hair tied back into a tight bun. She has an iPad with a wireless keyboard in front of her.

"Welcome to Riverwood. Do you have an appointment?"

"Yeah, uh. Derek Hale?"

She eyes the pack and box in Stiles' hands. Unsure, he places both on the surface of the desk, which looks fashioned from white marble, with blue accents. She's even wearing a blue dress. He wonders if that's her uniform.

"Is this a delivery?" she asks him.

"Kind of? No. This is definitely an appointment. But I am delivering lunch to him. And eating with him."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. He takes a moment to look at her name badge pinned to her dress.  _Emmy._

"ID?" she asks next.

Stiles hastily digs out his wallet from his back pocket. He'd taken the time today to wear a nicer pair of his jeans, and a clean shirt, and pulled on a form-hugging cardigan before leaving his apartment. He's wearing Isaac's scarf looped around his neck and his beanie to keep his hair in check. He shows her his ID, but she keeps her hand out for it. "Oh." He places it in her hand.

Then her fingers fly across her keyboard as she takes down all of his information. She presses a few buttons on the screen of the iPad quickly, and apparently is satisfied with what she finds. "You're in the system," she informs him. In the next moment a little printer that looks like it's for receipts is whirring to life next to the keyboard. It prints out a little sticker nametag for him. It says next to the Riverwood logo:

_Name: S. Stilinski_

_Guest of: D. Hale_

_Floor: 43_

She gives him back his ID, along with the sticker.

"Put it on," she suggests with a hint of a smile when all Stiles does is look at it in his hand. "Boyd will bring you up." She nods back at the security behind her. Boyd nods back. He's a hugely muscled black man who fills out the lines of his suit intimidatingly well. He sees Stiles looking at him, and grins.

"What? So he's escorting me?" Stiles asks, a little panicked. Boyd is  _huge_.

"Policy," Emmy says, shrugging. "He's nice. Don't worry."

Stiles puts on the sticker, picks up his pack and box of goodies, and Boyd opens the gate next to the turnstiles for him. When Stiles steps through, Boyd gives the boxes and Stiles a once over. "There's nothing dangerous in here," Stiles blurts. "Or on my person."

Boyd laughs, and it's a surprisingly soft sound. "No, I just want to see the look on Erica's face when she sees you. I hope you brought those cookies you promised."

So Boyd knows Erica well enough to know that she's getting a box of cookies and cupcakes as a bribe. 

"They're right here." Stiles lifts the box in question as they walk to the elevators. Instead of an  _up_  and  _down_  button, there's a numeric keypad. Boyd punches the numbers 4 and 3 into the keypad, and moments later, the elevator to the very right dings to announce its presence and its doors slide open. "Woah," Stiles breathes.

"First time here?" Boyd asks him.

"Is it obvious?"

"Yeah." He laughs again when they get in. Stiles bristles.

Again, there are no buttons accept for  _Door Open, Door Close_ , and  _Emergency_. The elevator brings them straight up to the 43rd floor in less than 10 seconds. Stiles' ears pop.

"Thanks, man. I think I can--" Stiles starts to say, but Boyd is already walking out of the elevator and striding down a corridor. It's warm up here, both in temperature and styling. Less blues, more browns and woods. Earthy tones. The hallways have framed paintings and photographs every few steps of various forests and river systems, and the floor is dark carpet.

Stiles hastens to follow him as he twists down a few different hallways and finally ends in front of a set of double doors. There's a large desk perpendicular to the doors to the side, and behind that desk sits another young woman, with wavy shoulder-length blond hair and a blouse-and-skirt-with-heels combo that would make Lydia green with envy. She's typing away at a thin laptop, focused. 

Boyd clears his throat.

The woman looks up sharply, frowning. But the frown drops into a smile as soon as she sees Boyd.

"Aw," she says. "You brought me a present."

Stiles looks down at his box and pack.

Boyd says, "She means  _you,"_  rolling his eyes. He nudges Stiles forward with a large hand on his shoulder. "This is Stilinski. Stilinski, this is Erica Reyes, Derek's assistant."

"Awesome," Stiles says. "I mean, wow. Great to meet you."

"C'mere," she says, beckoning with a finger. Stiles goes. When he's standing in front of her desk, she looks him up and down, surveying, and then she stares at him, expectant. Her lashes are very full and long, and she has a cute nose. She must kill it at parties, and at any social gatherings in general. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

She frowns again. "I could just  _cancel_  this lunch, you know."

"Oh.  _Oh_. Yeah. Here." Stiles puts the box of baked goods on her desk. She lets loose an unabashed squeal of glee, and opens the box. Boyd is steadily inching closer to them, too. Stiles sees him craning his neck to look into its contents.

Erica picks up one of the cupcakes carefully, with dainty-ish fingers. "Oh, my God. Are these the cupcakes Derek won't stop talking about?" She sifts through the box reverently, careful, like she's afraid that they will fall apart. "Oh, and cookies. Those better be chocolate-chocolate. Are those chocolate-chocolate?"

But Stiles is stuck on the fact that Erica knows about his cupcakes, because: "Derek talks about my cupcakes?"

A sly smile. She pauses, considering. "Among some of your other attributes."

"He talks about me to you?"

"No," Erica says shortly. "He talks about you to Felicia, when she stops by for a chat, and I overhear them because I had IT wire his conference call system so that I can always access it."

"So you  _spy_  on him." Stiles quirks an eyebrow. He isn't sure whether to be impressed or wary, though he's leaning toward the former.

"I keep tabs on him," Erica corrects. "I need to know what he knows. I'm his gatekeeper."

"So can I go through the gate?" Stiles jerks his thumb toward the double doors, and Erica laughs.

"Ha, no. Not yet. He's on a call." She taps her temple. Napkins have appeared from nowhere. She places a cupcake on one white square and unwraps the parchment paper around its base. "Boyd, want one?"

She graciously offers him a mini-cupcake that he polishes off in one quick bite next to her desk, and then she takes a bite of her own larger cupcake. She moans. "God, yes. I accept this bribe. This is an awesome bribe. So, tell me about yourself, Stiles Stilinski. Who are you? What's so great about you?"

Even though she's picking apart a dense chocolate dessert, her body language is all dominance. She's leaning forward on the desk, hands open. She flips her hair over her shoulder.

Stiles says, "I can tread water continuously for about two hours. It's a skill."

Erica doesn't laugh, though it's a near thing. Her eye twitches, and Stiles can tell she's trying to keep herself in check. Actually, it's Boyd who titters first, shoulders shaking a little with the laughter. Slowly, Erica smiles. She takes another bite of her cupcake. "You're cute, even though you don't seem like his type."

"Really? What's Derek's type?" He crosses his arms in front of him, defensive.

"You know," Erica says. "Female. I've never seen him with a guy before."

"Oh."

Stiles feels the bottom fall out of his stomach. It's not a thing, he thinks. It's nothing to worry about.

"His last relationship was--" Erica cuts herself off. "Never mind. You're cute, you make awesome cookies, you're thoughtful and you don't seem crazy. You pass."

"I pass what."

"You pass my  _gatekeeper_  test, Stiles."

"Oh."

"You can go through those doors. He's just gotten off the phone."

"How did you know that?"

"I track his conversations. Remember? I'm his assistant! I know everything about him. You have made the right move, here, Stilinski. Unfortunately this box will last me about 2 days, so I expect more soon."

"What was his last relationship?" Stiles presses.

"Nothing. It was nothing," Erica insists. She finishes the cupcake, sweeps the trash into a bin next to her desk. Then she starts typing rapidly on her laptop's keyboard, her face illuminated by the glow of the screen. She's biting her lip. "Forget about it."

Only Stiles can't forget about it. He knows he can't. He looks at the double-doors, suddenly not as excited to see Derek as he was before. Something is off.

He gathers his pack with the thermoses and the chips and stands in front of the doors, hesitating. The wood of the doors is rich and dark, but plain. There's silence behind them. He imagines Derek in a pressed suit sitting behind a desk. What sorts of things would Derek have lining his walls? Signed baseballs? Photographs of him with basketball players? Pictures of his family?

Stiles swallows the lump around his throat. What did he even think he was  _doing_ here?

The handle of the door jiggles. Stiles almost jumps back, surprised, and then there's Derek, staring at Stiles with wide eyes. He's not smiling.

Erica says, "Derek. Your 1 o'clock is here."

.


	7. Chapter 7

Derek looks at him. Stiles looks at Derek. He feels a little foolish, standing in front of Derek's office doors, with the senior managing director staring at him like he's the leftover Chinese he forgot he had put into his fridge over a week ago. He's wearing a sharp suit, dark and stark. He wears it well.

Too late, Derek smiles. 

Too late, Derek holds him by his shoulders, hands heavy, draws him in to give Stiles a kiss on the cheek. He pulls him into his office. Stiles looks back at Erica, confused, panicked. Wrong. 

Erica gives him an uncertain thumbs up.

Stiles has filed the moment away already, filed it away for examination. He'll worry at it until he comes to the inevitable conclusion that Derek doesn't really want him around. That he's embarrassed about Stiles when it comes to his professional life. 

Derek stands in front of his desk, leans against it, leaving Stiles to stand in the center of the huge office awkwardly. It's warm here, too. And empty. There aren't any pictures on the wall, like Stiles predicted. It looks new. It looks like Derek hasn't moved in yet. There's a desk and a computer and a couple of chairs around a small table. A bar cart stands in one of the corners, with amber-colored alcohol sitting in tall bottles on the top surface, and one wall is lined in shelves full of books. 

The windows are huge. Derek has a corner office.

Derek smiles. Continues to smile. Stiles tries to see through it. "What are you doing here?" Derek asks him.

Stiles says, "I may have convinced Erica to set this up. She's not in trouble, right? If this isn't cool it's totally my fault. I just thought, like, we never get to see each other because of our schedules so I called her up and told her to reserve this time, and I came."

He can't keep looking at that smile on Derek's face, so he walks over to the books, shifts the pack over to the crook of his elbow so he can pick out a title at random.  _Outliers_ , Stiles reads. Typical.

"How do you know Erica?" Derek pauses. "How did you know where I work?"

Stiles turns to see that Derek has his arms crossed in front of him. He's frowning now, the smile having slipped from his face. Stiles mirrors his expression, something unpleasant curling in his gut. "Wow, uh. I Googled you. Was that not okay?"

Derek blinks. He seems to reassess the situation, and he sees that he's making Stiles nervous, that he's the one putting that expression on Stiles' face. "Sorry, that wasn't -- Of course. It's fine. Did you -- did you bring me lunch?" He points with a finger, body open toward Stiles, an invitation to approach, but Stiles hangs back. He's stuck on the word  _fine_.

"Fine? What do you mean  _fine_?" A touch of anger colors his words and his cheeks.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "You just caught me off guard, is all. I don't like being caught off guard. But it's fi--It's  _good_. Thank you, for doing this, for bringing lunch. That's lunch, right?"

Stiles exhales. The knot in his chest loosens. Get a grip, he tells himself. He'd just been over-thinking things, like his usual. So Erica didn't know that Derek dated men - he is obviously someone who likes to keep out of the public eye, just based on the disappointing lack of information about him on the internet. So Derek didn't immediately want to jump Stiles' bones when he first saw him standing outside his office - Derek was just surprised. He's getting over it, now, and he wants Stiles to be here.

"Yeah," Stiles returns, smiling now. It's hesitant at first, but grows when Derek smiles, again, and this time Stiles doesn't try to see past it. It's genuine. "I brought some soup. I thought. We can eat outside? It's a nice day."

It's true. It is a nice day - crisp and clear and chilled. In a few weeks, it might snow. Now, it's cold enough to see your breath in front of you in a silver cloud when you breathe, to really want that hot chocolate warming your hands.

"We can go to the Seaport," Derek suggests. He pushes off from his desk and walks over and past Stiles, toward the office doors again. Stiles turns. Derek's reaching for his coat that's hanging on a rack by the entrance. He's traded his leather jacket for a peacoat, and he pulls that on over his suit, but leaves it unbuttoned. "Won't you be cold?" Derek asks, tilting his head at Stiles.

"Won't you be hot?" he asks, walking toward him. He wants to fold himself into Derek's coat. He wonders if Derek would let him.

"Yeah, people are always thinking that I run hot." Derek shrugs, his shoulders broad and elegant in his coat. "But it's the opposite." He takes the pack from Stiles, and Stiles takes that opportunity to use both of his free hands to frame Derek's face, palms brushing against the hint of stubble.

"Well, if you get cold, you can borrow my scarf."

"Is that even your scarf?" Derek rolls his eyes, his face drawing closer to Stiles' in his hands.

"No," Stiles whispers, tilting his chin up at Derek, an invitation. Derek takes it, and finally here's the kiss that Stiles has been waiting for. Derek closes the distance between them, presses soft lips against Stiles' and just - holds him.

Like he's breathing Stiles in, like he needs Stiles to center him. Stiles shifts, whining a little, moving so that he can wrap his arms around Derek's neck, pull him in tighter, and that's when the pace of Derek's kiss changes.

He nips at Stiles' bottom lip, and Stiles opens for him, and then Derek's tongue is licking into his mouth, rough and warm, and when it retreats Stiles chases it, needy.

They kiss like that until their bodies feel molded together, until Stiles has inserted himself into the space between Derek's thighs and they are heavy against Derek's doors.

It's been a while.

Arousal curls tight in Stiles' gut, and he can feel the evidence of Derek's digging into his thigh, and he's just about to turn his mind around to the idea of office sex being their first time together, when Derek breaks away, and says, as though reading his thoughts, "Not here."

His voice is rough.

"What?" Stiles rasps, surprised at his own voice.

"I'm not going to have sex with you in my office before we have sex  _in a bed_ ," Derek says, and that just makes Stiles think about them both in bed, sheets tangled around them. He groans, darts forward to kiss the corner of Derek's lips.

"Why," Stiles presses.

"I want to do things right," Derek whispers, which freezes Stiles before he can plant another kiss on him.

It means that Derek has done things the wrong way before. It means he doesn't want to do those things with Stiles.  

He pulls back a little, examining Derek's face. His eyes are dark and serious, tight at the corners. The arousal in his gut sharpens into something else, something stronger. Affection, and maybe even --

Stiles wants to do things right, too.

"Okay," Stiles says, nodding. The tension falls immediately from Derek's face. "But you gotta give me a minute to compose myself before we head out." His eyes flicker down to his crotch.

So they both may need a few minutes.

"Okay," Derek agrees. He kisses Stiles again, like he can't help himself, and he's grinning when he pulls away.

"That means no more sneak-attack kisses, or so help me." Stiles swats at him, and Derek laughs.

"Have dinner with me." His eyes are bright and wide, stunned at his own words.

"What," Stiles finds himself saying again. "We've already done that."

"This Friday. Have dinner with me," Derek repeats, sincere and serious, "And dessert, and then let me take you back to mine, and we'll have wine, and we'll fall into my huge bed--"

"And have sex?"

Derek nods rigorously. "Any way you want it," he promises.

"Hm," Stiles hedges, pretending to consider. All the negative thoughts from before have dissipated into something insubstantial. " _Hmm._ "

Derek grunts, snaps forward again to place another kiss against Stiles' lips, and then he just keeps having at it, peppering Stiles' face with little kisses. "Okay!" Stiles shouts when the attack becomes too much, laughing. "Okay, you big bully. Jesus."

Which is when Derek nuzzles his nose into Stiles' neck. Stiles' heart catches in his throat. Derek murmurs, "I really wish I didn't have to work, so we could get started early on that. But I also really want to eat this soup because I am  _starving_."

"You're such a Neanderthal."

"You're the one dating me, you know."

"I'm aware."

They stand there a minute longer, basking in each other's presence and letting the peace of the moment wash over them. Derek says, "I'm sorry. Earlier. I really was just surprised. You surprised me, and it made me think -- Never mind. I'm just sorry."

"It's okay," Stiles returns, instead of asking him the running list of questions he has for Derek: What did Stiles remind him of? Or, who? Why was being surprised at work such a big deal? But he doesn't ask these questions because he can tell Derek doesn't want to speak more to the topic, and Stiles is just fine with that.

"Let's take the soup out to the Seaport," Derek suggests. "It's a little cold, but we should be all right."

"All right."

Stiles buttons Derek's coat up for him, and Derek wraps Isaac's scarf around Stiles' neck, pulls Stiles' beanie down a little further over his ears. Stiles pushes it back up again. "You'll mess up my hair," he informs Derek, who scoffs at the complaint. 

When they do walk out of Derek's office finally, it's with their hands clasped together.

Erica stares at Stiles, stunned, her red mouth open, unabashed. They walk past, and Stiles gives her his own thumbs-up this time, and a gleeful smile. At the last moment, she remembers to say, "Have a nice lunch, Derek."

Derek pauses, making Stiles pause with him. He turns back, considering Erica quickly and announcing, "Erica, why don't you take an hour for lunch, too? I'm sure Boyd would love to take you to that place where he gets those great sandwiches."

Erica flushes pink at his words. 

Derek turns back around and strides forward again without waiting for her response, but Stiles can see from the shape of Derek's shoulders how pleased he is for putting that expression on Erica's face, and it pleases Stiles, too.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for your patience uwu
> 
> life is a little hectic right now so writing is slow. so thanks :)


	8. Chapter 8

They find a spot by the water, where the benches are all new concrete and hard metal, surrounded by transplanted flowers and bushes. The flora are all in various stages of dying given the increasingly cold temperatures, but Stiles can imagine how in the spring, it could be beautiful.

The benches all face the East River, which is a metallic grey, Brooklyn in view just across it. There are few people out, and the few who are don't seem to be of the mind to linger, hunched into themselves and hurrying to their next destinations. Stiles and Derek sit and face the water, and it feels like they could be the only people in the whole city, but they fit snug against each other, warm.

Derek passes Stiles a thermos and unscrews it for him, and Stiles does the same for Derek, and the first sip brings color into Stiles' cheeks.

"This is really good," Derek mumbles into the thermos.

"Don't sound surprised."

"I'm not. I'm - we should do this more often." He turns his body to face Stiles, giving him his full attention and holding the thermos with both hands. His breath comes out in small white puffs. "You know, since now you know where I work and all," Derek explains, his lips quirking up.

"I'm not your house wife. This can't be a regular thing. I have this other thing. It's called a job."

Derek leans into him, butts his head into Stiles' chest. Stiles wraps an arm around his shoulders in turn, hopelessly pleased. He feels a dopey smile blooming across his lips and is helpless to stop it.

" _Jobs_ ," Derek repeats in a tone that conveys as much disdain as possible.

It's ridiculous how adorable Stiles finds how Derek is behaving, almost like he's trying to make up for the lack of physical contact between them for the past few days. He can't help it - he ruffles Derek's perfect hair with his free hand and then drops down quickly to press a kiss to the top of Derek's head.

Derek grunts.

Because he's a caveman.

"You're such a caveman," Stiles teases.

"Caveman. Neanderthal. You're just full of compliments today."

"Hey,  _I'm_  the one who brought lunch, so you should be the one complimenting me, anyway."

"I said it was good," Derek says, plaintive.

"And then you called me a housewife."

" _No_ , you thought that up all by yourself."

Slowly, Derek extracts himself from Stiles' hold, but really they're sitting so close together that Stiles could cough and end up in Derek's lap. However, once Derek is out of his grip, the wind blowing from the water pierces cold through the material of Stiles' clothing. He shivers.

"I told you it was cold," Derek says, totally unnecessarily.

"Open up your jacket," Stiles orders, hugging his arms around himself and careful not to spill the soup.

Derek rolls his eyes skyward, obliging nonetheless. He puts the thermos down and unbuttons and holds the flaps out so that Stiles can nudge even closer until he's pressed right up to Derek's front, and then Derek brings his jacket around to cover them both. It's a tight squeeze, but they fit. Stiles offers him a sip from his thermos.

"So," he starts. "How's work?"

Derek shrugs. "Work is work. I've got a project on with a partner overseas. Which means 6:30am conference calls two days of the week to connect with them in Asia. You can surmise the rest."

"Ouch," Stiles says in mock sympathy. Derek chuckles, bumps him with his shoulder.

"You? How are you even here? How did you manage to get time off?"

Reflexively Stiles hunches down into the jacket when he answers: "I'm not technically  _off_ , right now. I am  _technically_  making a delivery and need to be back in around three."

"Is that what you told Lydia?"

"That's what I told Lydia."

Derek makes a noise. It's a new sort of noise from him - equal parts acknowledgment and disappointment and faintly judgmental. It's never been a noise Stiles had directed at  _him_. "What?" Stiles demands, knocking shoulders with him again.

"Nothing."

Stiles squints at him. "No, that's not nothing. That's your I-am-judging-you-and-your-decisions sound when the twins are about to do something you don't approve of."

"I make a  _sound_?"

"Yeah, you do. And you just made it. At me. So, what?" Stiles points an accusing finger at his nose.

Derek sighs. "It's nothing. Just. You shouldn't have to lie to Lydia to, you know, get some time for yourself."He raises his shoulders quickly, looking away, like he's trying to ignore that he just assessed Stiles' life in a tiny sentence.

Stiles has had this conversation before. He's tired of having this conversation. His heart knots in his chest, preparing itself for a fight.

But he doesn't want to fight.

"It's not lying, okay," he tells Derek, looking over the water and into Brooklyn. He imagines their little bakery in the thick of all those buildings, small and cozy and his second home. "It's--"

"--Omitting the truth," Derek finishes for him. Stiles' eyes snap to Derek's, because he's turned back to face him, and his eyes are a little sharp, a little sad.

"Maybe," Stiles admits softly. There's familiarity in Derek's gaze, like he knows what he's talking about.

Derek sighs, his bulk warm next to Stiles under the jacket. He inches his hand behind Derek, so he can loop his finger through one of the belt loops on Derek's pants. He doesn't want this to turn into something ugly and biting, he's trying to say through the gesture.

"Don't you feel like you should be able to take a lunch if you want to take a lunch, without having to pretend you're out on a delivery?" Derek asks in one fell swoop, voice low.

Stiles tugs on the belt loop, and Derek noses at Stiles' hair in response. It makes his heart do a strange sort of flip. "Well, yeah," Stiles agrees. "But I - I don't want to hurt her feelings?" he tries to explain. "Jesus. I don't know." These conversions have a history of not going anywhere, and serve only to frustrate both parties. "Let's talk about something else," he suggests.

Derek sighs again; it's not aggravated or annoyed, but long-suffering. The sigh means that this talk isn't over, that Derek will probably bring the topic up again in the near future. "Sure."

And so Stiles blurts the first thing that comes to mind, a fresh anxiety. 

"Are you out? At work?" he asks, watching Derek's face for response.

It's carefully blank. Derek says, "Huh?"

Stiles wishes he could take it back, but he's never really gotten the hang of  _not_  putting his foot in his mouth, of not speaking before thinking. Besides which, now that it's out, he might as well get clarity on the issue. He swallows around nothing.

"Like, do your co-workers know you like men? Erica said something really weird before I went in. She said I wasn't your type. You know, because you like females."

Now Derek is looking at him like he's sprouted a second head. Stiles raises both eyebrows. It's an easy enough question to answer, isn't it?

Derek does answer, though somewhat haltingly.

"I do," he begins. "Like women. And men." His body stiffens next to Stiles, so Stiles moves his hand to press against the small of Derek's back, an attempt to reassure. Derek sags into it. "I don't like to talk about my personal relationships at work. Erica doesn't know what she's talking about."

"She seemed like she did," Stiles returns.

Derek's answer is immediate, and leaves no room for argument. "She doesn't."

Stiles nods, rubs small circles into Derek's back. "Okay."

They are silent for a moment, letting the sounds of the river lapping up the sides of the boardwalk lull them into a sort of meditative state. He wonders what thoughts he's conjured up in Derek's mind, if they are good or bad ones. Derek looks younger, staring out at the water. He wonders if this is Derek's true face, the one he wears if he thinks no one is looking. When he speaks again, it is quiet, and careful.

And he meant for this lunch to be fun.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Hey. I'm not trying to come off as preachy. Sorry. I don't need to be that guy you brag about to your coworkers." He cups Derek's chin in his fingers and tilts his face his way, so that he can look into his eyes. Stiles smiles. Derek's eyelashes dance. "I can be your totally secret mistress afternoon delight-thing," he tells Derek, who immediately breaks into soft laughter.

"You're ridiculous."

And just like that the tension is broken. They talk about what has been keeping them both busy for the past few days, about the twins, about time differences and movies they would both want to see if they had the time.

Derek tells Stiles about a restaurant that has some really good reviews in NY Mag - maybe they can go there for dinner on Friday. Stiles tells Derek about a recent middle-of-the-night phone call from Scott. Another freakout, this time over colors.

It's nice, and Stiles thinks back on the baseball game they went to see together - their first date - and feels like he's floating. Things have only gotten better. He thinks he could never get tired of Derek; everything about Derek is inherently interesting to him, and perfect because of that.

"What are you thinking?" Derek's voice breaks through his thoughts. He'd been telling Stiles about something happening in the Middle East that somehow Peter was involved in.

"Just thinking about how much I like you," Stiles shares, cheeky but sincere, and it's worth it to see a sudden bloom of rosy color on Derek's cheeks. It may be the first time he's really been able to make Derek blush.

"Yeah?" Derek breathes, his face very close. "How much is that?"

Stiles closes the distance between them and breathes out through his nose. He feels like if he were one of the twins, he'd say something like, " _This_ much!" and throw his arms out as wide as they could go, but he's an adult, unfortunately, and he hopes that this is enough answer, instead.

Just as Derek is about to press closer into Stiles, to wrap his arms around him and pull him in, Stiles' phone rings.

Without looking, Derek releases one of his hands to dig through Stiles' back pocket, extracting the phone and copping a feel in the process. "Perv," Stiles huffs, as Derek checks the screen of the phone.

"It's Lydia."

"Gimme that." Stiles snatches the phone from him, disengaging himself from Derek, and answers. "Hellooo?"

"Stiles," Lydia states. She gets right down to business. "When are you coming back?"

He checks the time on the face of his phone - barely past 2. With an apologetic look at Derek, he replies, "Uh, soon? I'm just about done here," hoping that Lydia isn't calling him with anything urgent.

This turns out to be the opposite of what he should have said around Derek, because he then seems to take that as his cue to try to distract Stiles from his conversation with Lydia in any way possible.

She's trying to tell him something, but meanwhile Derek's lips are meandering, hovering, over his skin, over his jawline, close enough that Stiles can smell his aftershave. Derek kisses the spot just behind Stiles' ear as he unsuccessfully tries to lean away, which just results in Derek leaning in.

"Are you okay?" Lydia asks, confused more than concerned.

He's aware that's he's mouth-breathing into the phone, and he seals his lips shut to prevent that. Of course, Derek then proceeds to start using his hands, too, at first pressing his whole palm flat against Stiles' stomach, and then they're traveling. Up his sides. Back down. He lifts up Stiles' cardigan and starts trailing his fingernails against the soft material of Stiles' shirt.

Stiles can't help it - he releases a sigh, and then Derek's thumb brushes past his nipple, and--

"Stiles?"

"Yeah," he squeaks abruptly. "Yeah, fine. Just, you know, all those stairs for the deliveries. Man, am I out of shape or what."

"Uh huh," Lydia says slowly. He can sense her nodding along with her words. "Sure.  _Anyway_. When you come back can you pick up some candles on the way? We ran out because someone named Tiff didn't count the inventory on Monday so we just need to replenish until Friday."

Derek mouths at his neck, his hair tickling at Stiles' chin. "Candles," he groans. "Yeah. Sure."

A heavy pause. Lydia asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah - I'm fine!" he assures her loudly, using a free hand to shove Derek off of him, but it's impossible. Derek is stronger, and clings tighter than a limpet.

"You just seem...distracted. Like, more than usual."

"I'm fine," Stiles grits. "I'll be back soon."

Lydia clucks her tongue. "Fine. Thanks. See you." And then she hangs up.

Stiles ends the call and isn't sure whether or not he wants to maul Derek or make-out with him, so he settles for returning the kiss that Derek demands from him immediately, and then biting him, not too hard, on his lower lip.

"Ow!" Derek pulls back, stunned, his finger darting to his injured, puffy lip. He frowns.

"For being a nuisance," Stiles admonishes.

" _Nuisance_ ," Derek repeats. "Sometimes, the way you talk..." He shakes his head, frown disappearing. He appears amused, instead. "So you have to go? Do you ever say no to her?"

"Lydia Martin? Say no to Lydia Martin? Have you  _met_ her?"

"Yeah."

" _You_ try saying no to her."

"Have  _you_ tried saying no to her?" Derek retorts, eyebrows furrowing.

And Stiles - Stiles has no response to that. "That is so not the point," he says instead, gathering up both thermoses and leftovers. He shoves everything they brought out with them into the pack and unravels himself from Derek's coat. "And I have to go, and you have a 2:30, apparently, right?"

Derek stares at him, fixes up his coat again. "You sure you didn't know Erica from before?"

They walk back to Derek's building together, and when they're standing in front of it Stiles shuffles on his feet in front of Derek. They're in view of everyone inside, since the walls are made of windows, and Stiles hesitates. Derek doesn't like to bring his personal life into the work environment, he knows, so how is he going to handle this good-bye? 

Stiles runs through a few different scenarios in his head: Derek could give him a bro-hug, or he could shake his hand, or he could even give him a high-five. He imagines Derek blowing Stiles a kiss and titters, unable to help himself. Then Derek kisses him on the cheek.

In real life.

In front of all those people inside.

In front of his co-workers.

Stiles doesn't say a word.

Derek says, "Friday, okay? I'll text you."

He goes inside and Emmy the receptionist greets Derek with a big smile. She might even wink at him. Boyd, who's back at his post behind her, flashes a peace sign at Stiles through the glass.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments uwu
> 
> Will Stiles and Derek ever get alone time without interruption??


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles volunteers to help Derek with the twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating went up for this chapter, but not by much. Let me know if it's not rated correctly, though :\

Derek calls him the next day around lunch to inform him glumly that Peter and the Leash have been called to attend some important dinner and are in need of a last minute babysitter Friday night, so he's sorry but they will need to rain check their dinner and after-dinner plans.

Stiles is at the bakery and halfway to angry before he checks himself, because he had carefully arranged his Friday at the bakery to start early (earli _er_ ) and end early, to get all the prep done before he left, to leave a list of things for Isaac to do, and now all that arranging is about to be for naught, when he had thought it would be for some very-much needed private-intimate time. Now, he's putting together some mini sandwiches they've decided to add to their lunch menu, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, and the first thing he says is, "The Leash?"

Derek breathes at the other end. "Oh," he says. "You've never met them. Felicia? She's Peter's wife. Laura calls her the Leash, because, well."

He has a very strong image suddenly of Derek wearing a leash, and nearly drops his phone into the mayonnaise. By some great feat of acrobatics, he manages to catch it before it hits the condiment and brings it back up to his ear. "So anyway, yeah, I'm on backup basically, if they don't find anyone, and they won't because the twins are a handful and it's like every sitter on the East Coast knows this," Derek is saying. "I'm really sorry."

The twins aren't that bad, though, really. They certainly are a handful, but definitely manageable, so Stiles finds himself saying, "Need some help with them?", cringing right after, because he doesn't want to sound like he's desperate to see Derek, even though he kind of is.

"I couldn't ask you to--" Derek starts, but Stiles interrupts him, putting the finishing touches on the sandwiches under his hands.

"You didn't. I offered. It could be nice. I like Ethan and Aiden. The little horrors."

"You like them  _now_ ," Derek mutters into the phone. "Prolonged exposure may induce negative dispositions and exhaustion."

"Is that what happened to you?" Stiles teases, imagining the look on Derek's face as he thinks about the twins. He has another batch of scones he needs to cut out from the dough and place onto a baking sheet for the afternoon, so he dips his fingers into the pot of flour against the wall on the counter and starts sprinkling the powdery stuff over the flat surface, after clearing away the sandwiches onto a tray that Isaac will come back to pick up when they run out in front.

The dough had been resting near the corner in a metal bowl, and now he dumps it out onto the floured surface, listening to Derek grumble. "You should have seen me before they were born. Totally carefree. No worries at all."

"You were pretty young when they were born, huh?" Stiles asks.

There's a pause on the other end. "Yeah," Derek says finally, an odd cadence to his voice, like his thoughts are far away. "About to graduate college, actually."

"And now I bet you're thinking they're freakin'  _huge_."

"Four years went by really fast. A lot of things happened in four years."

"I'll bet," Stiles chirps, nodding with his whole body as his hands and forearms get covered in flour, cutting the dough into circles and separating out the ready portions.

"If you really want to," Derek says tentatively. "I would love the company.

It's the way that Derek says it, so hesitant, that makes Stiles' heart stutter a beat. He smiles, because he knows this Derek, has seen this Derek that few others have seen - the one who loves his family so much and is so cautious and caring and soft.

"Well, when you put it that way," Stiles replies, pausing in his scone-making. He looks down at his work and almost laughs out loud, because the latest scone he has been trying to cut out is in the heart of a heart. It's like he's the protagonist of some cheesy romantic comedy. "What time should I come over? They'll be at Peter's, right?"

"No, I'm telling Peter to drop them off at mine. He owes me that much. You can come over at 6."

"Sounds like a plan."

"And Stiles," Derek continues, like Stiles hadn't even spoken. "Thank you."

"Hey," Stiles assures him. "It'll be fun.

.

Stiles isn't really sure why he thought this would be fun. He's tired from the early morning, yet his head is buzzing a little from the energy drink he'd guzzled down before leaving the bakery. The twins are ecstatic that he's visiting, and seem to be running on pure sugar, and they flit back and forth across his vision like gnats. Derek suggested pizza for dinner, but the twins had revolted, running around the living room with a throw blanket trailing behind Ethan as he held it over his head, like a cape.

"No pizza!" they're chanting. He thought everyone loved pizza, but it seems not to be the case with the Hales. "No pizza, no pizza!"

Derek sits on the couch as the twins circle the living room, eyes wide and staring at nothing. They've only been at this for less than an hour, but it feels like  _days_. The television is blaring a movie they put on earlier. Stiles can barely hear it over the noise Ethan and Aiden are making. 

"We want cupcakes from Stah-ills!" Aiden shrieks, right next to Derek's ear.

Stiles goes to sit next to Derek on the couch, which squeaks under the added weight. Derek turns to him and burrows his head under Stiles' arm until Stiles can rub affectionately at his head. "Do they have a power down button?" Stiles whispers dramatically at him, eyes following the spastic movements of Ethan and Aiden climbing over the other furniture in Derek's relatively spartan living room. 

The couch they are sitting on is sleek and dark leather, but warm. In front of them is a low coffee table that has corners that are not kid-friendly, and the rest of the living room is subtle in decoration, so as to showcase the huge flatscreen Derek has mounted on his wall, surrounded by a complicated system that can be controlled from Derek's phone. "I may have an idea," Stiles says next, still carding his fingers through Derek's hair.

"Anything," Derek says to Stiles' belly. "Anything will be better than this."

Stiles rises and Derek makes a frankly desperate noise from his throat, and when he's standing Derek is still sitting on the couch, hands over his ears.

"Boys," Stiles commands, or tries to. "Freeze-stop!"

Aiden freezes instantly, caught in a run. Ethan doesn't freeze quite as suddenly and careens into him, and then they end up in a tangled bunch of limbs and laughter on the carpet.

"Okay," Stiles huffs, this time putting his hands on his hips. "Okay. For real. Please stand up and hold yourself still for like 5 seconds while I tell you what we're making for dinner, because it's going to be awesome."

This has a reverse effect on the twins, as the promise for awesome overtakes their ability to contain any energy in their bodies. They come up shouting, jumping up and down before Stiles and exclaiming, "What? What?  _What_?!" Ethan tugs at Stiles' shirt, a huge grin on his face.

Stiles tries to sidestep them on his way to Derek's modern kitchen, but then Aiden manages to wrap his arms around his middle and cling, and he only picks him up and settles him against his hip because it makes moving easier, as Ethan reaches for Stiles' free hand. They walk like that, as a unit, to the kitchen.

"We are cooking breakfast for dinner," Stiles informs the twins, setting Aiden down on the sleek counter. He picks Ethan up by his armpits and sits him next to his brother. They both giggle, feet kicking out from the cabinets underneath them. "Because breakfast is Stiles' favorite meal, and also because I bet Derek doesn't have anything but eggs and frozen veggies in his fridge." 

Derek emerges then, leaning against the frame of the entrance to the kitchen. The room is set up so that the sink counter sits below another counter, for eating, with all the shiny stainless steel appliances opposite that. Stiles can see into the living room from where he standing before the sink.

Derek smirks. "You think so little of me."

Stiles opens the fridge and finds: "Just as I suspected. Eggs. And cheese." He glances over his shoulder, playing at affronted, and the twins laugh at Stiles' blatant disapproval of Derek's life choices. Stiles opens the freezer and gapes. "Dude."

When he looks back at Derek, he's shrugging. "I'm not big on cooking."

In Derek's freezer are stacks of microwave dinners, and a few little boxes of frozen vegetables. Stiles digs for those, making a big production of it. "You can't live on tv dinners," he says into the freezer's maw.

"I also order take out," he hears.

"Derek eats a lot of milk shakes," one of the twins says helpfully, which only makes Stiles laugh as he closes the freezer door, a bag of frozen broccoli and a box of frozen chopped onions in hand. It will have to do. He also takes out the carton of eggs and the packet of cheese, and flings cabinet doors open until he finds a  suitable pan, which he puts on the stove.

"Hate to break it to you, A-man, but those aren't tasty delicious milkshakes," he tells Aiden, shaking his head.

A look crosses Derek's features, surprised and fond, while Aiden months to himself, " _A-man,_ " glee unrestrained on his little face.

"What?" Stiles asks Derek, who just shakes his head before entering the kitchen fully.

"Nothing. So what are we making?" He picks the twins up again, one by one and set them down onto the floor while Stiles brings out bowls.

"A frittata," Stiles says. "Because I'm lazy. Can you set the oven? Ethan, Aiden - you guys ever crack eggs before?"

Derek moves past him to set the oven to an appropriate temperature, the broad palm of his hand brushing against the small of Stiles' back as he goes. Stiles smiles, pleased. 

"Dad doesn't cook," Ethan says. "Neither does Mom. Well, she makes mac'n cheese, sometimes."

"Huh, well. Are you in for a treat. Here." Stiles takes an egg out of the carton and holds a bowl with his other. He cracks the egg against the rim with one hand and empties its contents into the bowl. Ethan watches, amazed. Stiles takes another egg and cracks that one, too. Then, just to show off, he sets the bowl down on the counter where the twins had just been sitting, and cracks an egg in each hand, quick and efficient.

" _Cool_ ," Ethan whispers to his brother. Stiles proceeds to empty another four eggs into a separate bowl. Then he brings the bowls down to the twins' level, along with some forks he finds in the utensil drawer.

"You guys are on mixing duty. This is  _very important_. You do it like this." Stiles whisks the eggs in one bowl with the fork as the twins follow his movement. "You keep everything in the bowl, in the bowl. No spills,  _capiche_?" 

Aiden reaches up to take the bowl, eager. "Yeah, catfish!"

"No, it's -- nevermind."

The brothers end up taking the bowls and walking reverently with them into the living room, where they can mix with all their desire on the coffee table. Stiles looks at Derek. "You might want to go put down some place mats so there's no spillage," and Derek does what he's told.

When he comes back he hovers as Stiles fixes up the vegetables, just watching, grabbing spices when Stiles asks for them and tasting from the pan when Stiles offers. He steals a kiss every now and then, and time passes in Derek's apartment . 

.

When the twins are stuffed full of food, their bodies slow down, and they end up sprawled on Derek's couch, taking up all the cushions and watching the tail-end of an animated movie. When Stiles and Derek squeeze onto the couch, too, the twins don't hesitate to sprawl all over them instead, and pretty soon they're asleep in their laps. The two adults watch the movie through the credits, and then Derek shuts off the television with his phone.

Aiden is the one in Derek's lap, snoring softly with his mouth open, grumbling a little when Derek moves and picks him up into his arms but resettling without waking. Derek nods his head at Stiles, indicating for him to do the same, so Stiles mirrors his movements, albeit not as smoothly, and has to bounce Ethan up and down like a baby in his arms a few times to soothe him. Together they carry the twins back past the kitchen and bathroom and into Derek's bedroom, where they lay them down next to each other on the bed. Derek pulls the covers up over them. "Peter's coming to get them, soon," he whispers to Stiles as they exit. 

He doesn't have much of a chance to look around the room, but he does see all the basics at least, tastefully themed in black and gray and white, as well as a framed photo on the wall.

"Okay," Stiles says, following him out. They close the door behind them.

In the kitchen, Stiles washes the dishes while Derek dries, their shoulders touching, the apartment silent. Usually silence unnerves Stiles - he's never liked it, reminds him of waiting rooms in hospitals - but with Derek it's okay. The silence is an entity, a cocoon, that they share. It smells like lemon and lavender, and faintly of smoke.

Then the dishes are done and hands are washed, and Derek's hips are pressing against his and pressing him into the counter, and Derek's chest is a hot line of electricity against his front, his lips firm against Stiles'.

Stiles kisses back with just as much fervor, just as strong. Derek groans into his mouth and Stiles sucks it up, greedy, smiling so that their teeth clack together. His hands roam Derek's jawline, Derek's throat, his shoulders and chest and back. He slips his hands into the back pockets of Derek's jeans and squeezes.

Derek retaliates with a delicious, slow roll of his hips.

Stiles gasps, hands abruptly reaching out behind him for the counter, because his knees are about to give out, even with Derek pressed so hard to him, holding him to the counter. "What happened to sex in a bed?" Stiles stutters out as Derek takes the opportunity to place open-mouthed kisses onto Stiles' neck, the juncture at his collarbone.

"Bed's. A little. Occupied," Derek says between kisses, finishing off with the pressure of teeth above Stiles' pulse point.

" _Oh_ ," Stiles moans, unable to keep the noise inside of him, and Derek immediately claps a hand over his mouth. 

"Shh," Derek reprimands, stopping for a few precious moments as Stiles catches his breath. "The twins are sleeping."

"No  _shit_ ," Stiles snaps when Derek removes his hand.

Then: 

"I wanna blow you." Derek licks his lips. Stiles stares, transfixed, at the pink dart of his tongue.

"No shit?"

Derek shakes his head, licks his lips again, and then he sinks down onto his knees. "You're really good with them," he says as he undoes the top button of Stiles' jeans, looking up at him with those multi-colored eyes, and Stiles is helpless. Totally, completely helpless. "You could tell them apart."

"Can we not talk about children while you're about to give me a blow job."

"I just thought you should know," Derek continues, unzipping now, using his thumbs to slide the jeans from Stiles' hips, smirking at the boxers he finds underneath. "Batman?"

"Don't start," Stiles warns. "And - Hold on. Are you telling me you're turned on by my child-caring skills? Is that what this is about?" Then Derek breathes hot over the bulge of his dick through the thin cotton barrier, and Stiles forgets how to talk, how to form sentences. "Jesus Christ  _on a bike_."

Derek chuckles, and then because he's a total shit, nuzzles the inside of Stiles' thigh with the prickly hairs of his five o'clock shadow. Stiles twitches, breath hitching. The counter is warming under his grip.

"This is going to be embarrassingly short," Stiles informs him. "Not my dick, I mean. I mean I am really aroused right now, and you are so hot, and you don't even know how many times I've - oh. Okay." 

Derek pulls down his boxers in a swift move, and that's it, Stiles is bare to him, the chill air in the kitchen making him gasp. "Perfect," Derek says, which brings a furious blush to Stiles' cheeks. In fact he's pretty sure his entire body is blushing, overheated, over-sensitized. Derek kisses the tip and Stiles nearly cries, it's so beautiful.

"Oh my god," he says, when Derek wraps his lips around him, shallow at first, just tasting him. His lips are like velvet. The heat of his mouth is like - is like hot fudge. Stiles sighs when Derek takes him deeper, clenches his hands into fists when Derek starts working a rhythm, throws his head back when Derek starts bobbing his head in earnest, the slick, wet sounds in his ears, Derek's hums and groans.

Climax builds like a wave cresting. Slow at first, and then with a burst of speed. It rolls underneath him, the pleasure, the arousal, slipping out of him in short exhalations, sounds of appreciation. He cards his fingers through Derek's hair, messing up the thick brown locks, and when he's close his grip tightens, and Derek makes a noise of approval. "I'm gonna come," he tells him anyway, just in case Derek didn't get the message, and Derek doesn't stop.

He comes and it feels like someone punched the breath out of him, and he hunches over Derek's form, cradling him, as Derek swallows.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while, huh? Thanks for reading :)


	10. Chapter 10

The doorbell rings and Stiles pitches forward on reflex, smashing his nose into the back of Derek's skull and groaning pathetically at the impact, using his right hand to rub at the injury because his left arm is pinned under Derek's weight from where they're spooning on the couch. It  _can't_  have been that long. He remembers Derek changing into thin sweats and a t-shirt, and he remembers leading Derek back to the living room, straddling him on the couch for a long-overdue session of the hot-and-heavy variety, and then needing a moment, shifting to lie down, closing his eyes when he felt Derek settle above him, and then -

And then from there, Stiles might have just crashed, if he's being totally honest with himself. Crashed from the energy-drink burn and from a long shift and from dealing with the twins, so he's partly embarrassed for falling asleep on his partner but also partly touched for how Derek had arranged their bodies on the couch, how Derek must have turned on the television and drew Stiles' arm up and over his torso to watch the television quietly while Stiles snoozed behind him.

The doorbell rings again. This time, it's Derek who snorts into wakefulness, immediately sitting up and frowning behind him at Stiles. He looks adorably confused and rumpled. Stiles reaches for him with both hands and plants a kiss right smack on Derek's lips, humming a little, toes curling in his socks because, yeah, Derek had taken off his shoes for him, too.

Then, incessant knocking.

"All right, all right," Derek grumbles, pulling away slowly, and at a volume where the person on the other side of the door definitely can't hear. "I'm coming. No need to break down the door." He stands and tugs Stiles up with him, and they both shuffle to the front door, where Derek frowns at the doorknob, sighing. "It's Peter," he tells Stiles, taking Stiles' hand and pulling him so that he's standing just a little to the side and behind him, like he's protecting him from something. It makes Stiles tilt an eyebrow in consideration. "He can be...a handful."

When he opens the door, an older man is standing on the other side, fist raised in the air and about to knock, again, but he lowers it and smirks when he catches sight of his nephew, of his smashed-flat hair on one side and cat-like frown, and then he smirks some more when he sees Stiles behind him. Objectively, Peter isn't a bad-looking dude. He's older, yes, with graying hair at his temples, but he still looks sharp, with keen eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee. He's wearing what used to be a tuxedo worthy of a benefit dinner, before he loosened the bow-tie and popped a few of the buttons.

"Derek!" Peter greets, arms out wide to hug him. He steps forward across the threshold without needing an invitation, and Derek just steps aside, lets him in and returns the tactile gesture with a quick, one-armed hug, and closes the door. "My favorite nephew."

"Your  _only_  nephew," Derek corrects.

"And you must be Stiles."

Peter's gaze zeroes in on him, and it's like a hawk catching sight of his prey. He extends a hand and Stiles steps around Derek to shake it, ignoring the look Derek casts his way at putting himself within hands-reach of his uncle. Whatever. He's just Derek's  _uncle_.

But then Peter takes his hand and drags him forward and bends at the waist and - oh.

Brushes his lips across the backs of Stiles' knuckles.

"Charmed," Peter pretty much purrs, while Derek frowns some more and glares but doesn't say anything. When Stiles looks back at him, alarmed, Derek just rolls his eyes.

Ah, so nothing major to worry about then. But he wishes Derek had told him that Peter was a shameless flirt.

"I'm sure," Stiles murmurs, taking his hand back. "It's good to meet you."

"You have no idea. I've heard so much about you. Derek, you didn't tell me Stiles was such a handsome young man." He doesn't look at Derek while he says this, just stares Stiles straight in the eyes, and Stiles feels his ears turning pink. Peter grins.

Derek casually-but-not-so-casually places an arm around Stiles' shoulders and says, rapid-fire, "How was dinner? The twins are sleeping. Where's Felicia?"

A good tactic, really. Because he gets in everything he needs to get in to be considered polite, but it's pretty much an invitation to get the twins and leave. Peter glances behind him, presumably at the space beyond the wall where his wife is waiting for her family in the car. "In the car talking to some clients. I swear, she  _never_  stops working. How were the twins? They didn't wear you out, did they?"

It's Stiles, again, who is at the receiving end of this question, and Peter looks him up and down, a curl in his lips. "Nah," Stiles answers him, returning the smirk. "Other way around, definitely. Believe me, I had  _motive_  to get them to sleep as soon as possible." He looks up at Derek, winking.

Peter catches the wink. It makes him laugh out loud. "Oh," he says. "Derek, I  _like_  this one."

He doesn't stay for much longer. Derek helps him take the twins out, still snoozing, to the car while Stiles leans against the door frame, watching. Felicia must be the woman in the passenger side of the black Benz, who is simultaneously checking the paint on her nails and rapidly moving her lips to the cellphone pressed against her ear. Something sparkles at her neckline. Stiles has the sudden realization that that's Lydia in a few years. Definitely.

The twins are deposited into the backseat safely and Derek gives his uncle another quick one-armed hug goodbye, and before Peter gets into the driver's side, he pauses and waves at Stiles by the door, calling out, "Thank you for helping Derek take care of our little monsters. Until next time!"

And then they're gone.

Derek lopes back, slow and easy, hands in the pockets of his sweats. His eyes catch the light escaping from the apartment, making them seem to glow in the dark. He reaches Stiles and grins.

"Can I come in?" he asks, playful.

"I don't know," Stiles answers, tapping his lips. "What's the password?"

Derek kisses him, languid and smooth, like he's kissed Stiles a thousand time before, like Stiles is the sand and Derek the salty waves crashing against him, rhythmic and warm. He doesn't realize how heavily he's breathing until he's acutely aware of the doorknob digging into his back from where Derek shoved them both inside and pushed Stiles up against the door.

"That'll do," Stiles speaks against Derek's open mouth. "For a password."

When Derek grins Stiles can feel it, so he grins with him, chases after his lips when Derek pulls away only to duck his chin when Derek mouths at the sensitive spot behind Stiles' ear, his arms coming around to grasp Derek tighter, to make him fit into the negative spaces in Stiles' body. Derek groans and his breath is hot, but it makes Stiles shiver all over.

"I think you should stay the night," Derek breathes against him, fingers curling into the collar of Stiles' plaid over-shirt, and it makes something warm blossom in Stiles' belly, something that makes him want to say,  _I think maybe longer, maybe forever_ , but he doesn't say that, because this isn't a movie and it's too soon for those kinds of confessions. Maybe Derek's not ready for that. Really, maybe  _Stiles_ ' isn't ready for that.

So he says, instead, " _Okay_ ," and tries to show Derek the rest.

.

Derek snores. It may be the one major flaw in Derek's physical character, since Stiles is a light sleeper starting from the time about an hour before the sun rises, no matter the season, so he's lying there with his head on Derek's chest in Derek's huge bed under the covers, their legs twisted and locked around each other, and Derek's snoring and Stiles is awake. 

Through the curtains, he can see the sky starting to lighten, and he gives up any hope of getting back to sleep, even though this very spot may be the most comfortable he's ever been: warm, naked skin and Derek's breath tickling the little hairs on the back of his neck.

He's glad they saved the real stuff for the bed. There are a lot of things he wants to do on Derek's bed, but mostly right now he wishes he could curl up like a kitten and fall back asleep, and escape thinking about going into the bakery for at least another hour. Derek snores, and he mumbles something in his dream, and then he's moving, turning them both onto their sides so he can be the big spoon, and Stiles fits neatly within his arms.

That's when he hears it. Just a squeak of a cabinet door opening and shutting, and muffled curse at the noise. His ears prick up, and he slaps Derek lightly on the wrist. "Derek," he whispers.

Derek mumbles something again, but doesn't wake.

This time the noise is distinctly the clatter of cans falling to the counter and rolling around on the floor. The cursing is louder, too. "Goddamn cans. What a freak," Stiles hears.

The clatter upsets Derek in his sleep. He shoves at Stiles and turns over, away from him, and pulls the covers over his head.

"Baby," Stiles grumbles, heart thumping in his chest.

Was it a burglar? Had they left the front door unlocked? What were they going to try to steal in the kitchen? Should he dial the police? He panics for a moment, but in the end Stiles is the investigative sort - curiosity killed the cat, and all that - so he sucks in a breath and sits up quietly, pulling on Derek's sweats he had discarded to the floor last night toward the beginning of their enthusiastic activities, and stands. 

Derek has a golf bag in one corner of his room, so Stiles takes a club from there, amazed that none of the others fall over, and hefts it over his shoulder like a bat. "Derek," he hisses again, careful to keep his voice from carrying. "I think someone broke into your apartment."

"No," Derek mumbles from under the covers.

It's probably nothing. Just lack of sleep catching up on Stiles. Maybe he's dreaming. Lucidly. He gives up on Derek and talks himself into checking out the noise.

Stiles tightens his grip on the club, and then he goes to investigate.

The noise is definitely coming from the kitchen, where the lights are on. He pads down the hallway, wincing when a weak spot in the flooring creaks loudly.

The noise stops. A distinctly female voice calls out, "Derek?"

And now Stiles has other thoughts. Who is this woman? More importantly, who is this woman in Derek's kitchen who knows Derek's name? He seeks out the front door and sees it closed, not banged up or anything, no evidence of trespassing. Who is this woman who could possibly have a key?

He hikes up Derek's sweats around his hips and prepares himself for another step, because he hears footsteps now, moving closer, toward him. The intruder takes a step and sounds like she's right beyond the wall, around the corner, and then she actually does turn the corner, throwing her shadow into the hallway.

Stiles has but a moment to take in the leather jacket, scarf, boots, and long, wavy dark hair before there's a cry and Stiles suddenly can't breathe and he's on his back with weight across his chest. He drops the club, brings his hands up to his face reflexively. "Don't hurt me!" he's screaming, just as the woman yells, "Who the hell are you?!"

And then they both shout, "Derek!"

And freeze.

Stiles drops his hands.

The woman, who's actually sitting on his chest with her fist cocked and ready, turns wide hazel eyes at him. She blinks. And then she grins.

The fist drops but Stiles flinches at the movement, muttering a quick, "Jesus Christ," before he thinks it, even as he realizes she's not going to hit him or attack him in any way. She sits back a little, settling her weight on his belly, so at least he can breathe a little better, and then she crosses her arms, grin never leaving.

Derek takes that moment to make an appearance, stuttering to a stop just outside of his bedroom door, a pillow held in front of him for a little privacy. And then he  _rolls his eyes_.

Stiles glares at him the best he can from his position on the floor. This is not an eye-rolling situation. This is a situation of very real possible danger and threat and Derek is really taking this too lightly. The woman says, "You could have told me I'd be interrupting," and gets off Stiles.

"You didn't tell me you were coming,  _Laura_ ," Derek returns.

Laura extends a hand and Stiles takes it, allows himself to be pulled up by surprising strength to standing. "Just passing through. Whatever," she says. "Put on some pants, brother. I'm making breakfast. I'm Laura, by the way. Derek's sister."

"Uh," Stiles says.

"Stiles, right? You must be. Derek almost never shuts up about you. Couldn't possibly be anyone else."

"Uh," Stiles says again, looking at the golf club behind him and then at Derek, who still hasn't moved and is holding that ridiculous pillow in front of him, and Derek's sweats are sliding down his hips again, so he yanks those up.

Laura cocks an eyebrow. It's startlingly similar to an expression Derek wears far too often. "Eloquent. I see why you like him."

" _Laura_ ," Derek chastises with the tone of the long-suffering.

"No, really. You're pretty cute, what-with your Bambi eyes and lollipop mouth." Laura bops his nose, and it breaks Stiles out of his trance.

"I was going to hit you with a golf club," Stiles blurts, frantic. "Repeatedly. I had plans to repeatedly hit you with that thing right there." He points at the offending weapon. "Oh, my god I am  _so_ sorry."

"Hey," Laura shrugs. "No big. Not like you managed it, anyway."

Derek grunts, pulls at Stiles until he's stumbling back into the darkened bedroom, and closes the door. He pulls Stiles against his chest and Stiles wails, "Your sister thinks I'm a dumbass."

"She thinks  _everyone's_ a dumbass."

"But me, me especially," Stiles points out. He knows Peter likes him - maybe a little too much - but he wanted for Derek's sisters to at least get a good impression. The way Derek talks about them - he wonders if Derek talks about  _him_ that way, too.

"Maybe," Derek acknowledges.

Stiles wails again, wordless, dropping his head onto Derek's shoulder.

"Don't worry," Derek tells him. "You have about twenty minutes to change her perception of you before she takes off. When she says 'passing through' she really means 'passing through.'"

"We didn't even get to have morning sex," Stiles complains against Derek's collarbone, where he smells like cotton and faintly of sweat and cologne. Leftover from the night before. "I was going to  _do_ things."

Derek laughs, soft and low and vibrating. "You know," he mutters, like he's telling Stiles a secret. "I think my shower's big enough for two."

Stiles lets a beat pass, just to let his imagination run a little, and he nips at Derek's shoulder playfully. "Why don't we make sure?"

.


	11. Chapter 11

Laura's beautiful, and Stiles feel less of a man for presenting himself to her in one of Derek's smaller henleys and his jeans from yesterday, his hair still damp from the shower and Derek sliding around him dressed in the sweats he'd slept in and a hoodie when they're all in the kitchen. Derek goes to kiss Laura on the cheek, and Laura accepts it as her due, before placing two steaming bowls of oatmeal onto the counter. Derek takes one and gives Stiles the other, and they all move to the living room, where Laura turns on the news and doesn't take off her leather jacket.

It's not even  _nice_ oatmeal. Like, Stiles should not be as nervous as he is, consciously keeping himself from biting at his fingernails. It's instant oatmeal that he's convinced Laura had to rummage for, the packets hiding deep in the recesses of Derek's kitchen cabinets, and it's artificially sweet on his tongue when he takes his first bite, sitting next to Derek on the couch where they had spooned the night before. 

He could make nice oatmeal. Steel-cut oats and maple syrup and brown sugar. Just enough fresh and dried fruit. He'd wake up early to make it and Laura wouldn't have -- well, he wouldn't have tried to brain Laura with a baseball bat.

Laura doesn't even sit. Just sort of perches on the entertainment shelving unit behind her, unabashedly eyeing Stiles and biting her lip, a smirk not-so-carefully hidden there. She looks like Derek. Same strong jaw, high cheekbones and dark eyebrows.

If Stiles had known he was going to be meeting two-thirds of Derek's family within the span of twelve hours, he would have brought brownies. Or at least a change of clothes.

When he looks over at Derek, he's already halfway done with his bowl of oatmeal. Stiles puts his down on the coffee table with a clunk and says to Laura, "Aren't you going to have any?"

Laura says, "Oh, no. I'm totally sated by your baby deer-like nervousness and inability to stop blushing. You've met Peter, haven't you? Don't worry;  _I_ don't bite."

Stiles starts. "Peter doesn't--"

Derek's spoon clangs against his empty bowl and he sits back, patting his stomach. "Did you really come by because Peter told you he'd be here?"

He doesn't sound angry, though. Amused, maybe. Exasperated.

Laura sighs, blowing her away from her face. "It's been forever, Derek. I was coming through here, anyway. And who knows how long it would have taken, otherwise, for you to show him off, huh?"

"Well, now you've seen him," Derek says, gesturing at Stiles like Derek's Vanna White and Stiles is the grand prize. 

"Yeah," Laura agrees, smiling. "What do you do, again, Stiles?"

"I bake," Stiles says, clearing his throat a little at the sudden question. "I have a bakery in the neighborhood, actually."

"Oh?" Laura asks, sounding intrigued. She tilts up one eyebrow. "And you've met the twins?"

"Yeah," Stiles answers, squinting at the change in subject. "Yeah, we babysat them last night."

"And you didn't die or try to set the apartment on fire, so that's a good sign."

"Not  _yet_ ," Stiles amicably agrees.

Laura laughs, levels Derek with a look that is meaningless to Stiles, but obviously it means something to Derek, because Derek rolls his eyes at his sister and moves to stand.

"I see," Laura says brightly. "Sorry I interrupted your weekend plans."

Derek, standing, draws Stiles in and places a kiss on top of his head. A wordless signal passes between the siblings and they both go back into the kitchen, Derek tossing a "let's get you to the bakery soon" over his shoulder. Laura winks at Stiles on the way to the kitchen.

Stiles sits on the couch and pokes at his cooling oatmeal with his spoon. A minute passes by of the siblings' indecipherable whispered conversation in the kitchen before Stiles decides to check his messages, and he realizes he'd left his phone charging on Derek's nightstand. He has to pass by the kitchen to walk to Derek's room, and when he does pass by it, the conversation stops, taken over by Derek washing his bowl in the sink and Laura looking into Derek's refrigerator with an unhealthy amount of concentration. They think they're being stealthy.

It's probably just a weird family thing, Stiles thinks. He's never had siblings, so he can't know for sure, but he's confident that if he asked Derek, later, he'd share what was so important with Laura in the kitchen, or at least he'd tell Stiles what he needed to know.

With a wave he walks by and into Derek's room, pleased to see his phone is blinking near the top right with an alert that means he has messages waiting.

But then he checks them, sitting on the edge of Derek's bed.

Two are from Lydia. Six are from Scott, and one voice mail.

He opens Scott's first, alarmed by the number of exclamation points he sees in the display.

The first says: _DUDE!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! !!_

The second:  _STILES WHERE R U!? YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHERE I AM RIGHT NOW!?_

Then, _I am at the hospital. STILES. I need you buddy._

Stiles' breath hitches at that, alarm tightening his chest, but then he reads on, and the tension relaxes. 

_It's coming. I'm actually going to be a dad. ME. DAD. YOU. GET HERE. Mt. Sinai._

The other two from Scott are nonsense - smiley faces and exclamation points and question marks - and Stiles feels a grin nearly split his face in two. Scott is going to be a  _Dad_. He and Allison are at the hospital,  _right this instant,_  and there's a baby coming -  _their_ baby. Oh, yeah. And kind of Stiles', too, since he's the godfather. The voice message is mostly Scott shouting the same things into the phone so loudly that his voice distorts.

Lydia's messages aren't quite so emotive, but she simply tells him, _shop is closed. come to hospital!_

And then,  _I will kill you if you're not here at the moment of truth_.

He walks back out in a daze, his messenger bag he'd brought with him slung over his shoulder, aware that he's smiling like a dope. He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen, and when Derek notices him, he furrows his brow in worry. Stiles is practically vibrating with excitement.

"I need you to take me to the hospital," Stiles tries to say as calmly as possible.

This only serves to snap both Hales' attentions to him immediately, their faces wearing matching expressions of concern. "What? Why? Are you hurt?" Derek asks, immediately coming over and cupping Stiles' face in his hands, turning his chin this way and that, staring into Stiles' eyes.

Laura says, "Derek, did you  _break_ him?"

But they both ignore her, and Stiles grasps Derek's face in his hands, too, bringing him closer to smack a kiss onto his lips. "Scott's having the baby," Stiles says when he pulls away, eyes bright and grip tight. It kind of smooshes Derek's face up a little, the way he's holding him, and it makes him laugh, happy and light, the realization of what's happening for his friends right now slowly succeeding in overtaking him. "They're at the hospital," Stiles breathes against Derek. "They're having a baby!"

"Oh, my god," Derek gasps. "Oh.  _Oh_. Hospital. Let me--" 

He lets go of Stiles' chin to dig both hands through the pockets of his sweats, frowning when his hands come up empty. "My keys. I can. I'll drive. Where are  _my keys_?"

Stiles can't help the laughter that bubbles out of him now, now that he's seeing Derek frantic. Derek starts to turn over every piece of paper he finds in the kitchen, opening up every drawer, looking for his car keys. It strikes him that he's  _never_ seen Derek frantic before, and now here they are, and Derek's all worked up because Stiles is all worked up, because Derek cares enough about Stiles to care about Stiles' friends, too.

Laura jingles the keys in her hand. "I was going to--whatever. I'll take a cab," she offers, smiling. Derek snatches the keys from her hand.

" _Stealing_ ," Derek accuses.

"Borrowing," Laura corrects, and Stiles know - he  _knows_ \- that this is a long-standing battle between the siblings. Can see the history of it in his mind. "I'll lock up. You go." She makes a shooing motion.

Derek kisses her on the cheek again. He's a whirlwind and Stiles is the eye, the center. Soon after, he gets swept up in Derek's motions, grasped by his wrist and herded to the front door. Derek actually turns and stops and straightens out of the collar of the henley Stiles is wearing underneath the strap of the messenger bag, lips pursed.

"You have everything?" Derek asks him.

Stiles nods. 

Laura laughs. "Wait! Wait, wait." She jogs over to them, kisses Stiles on the cheek, too. "Nice to meet you, Stiles," she says. "Next time I promise a real meal, okay?" 

And then she ushers them out the door.

They pretty much run to Derek's car, which--

It's a  _Camaro_.

Of course Derek drives a sports car in Brooklyn. He probably takes it out for a spin in Jersey every once in a while. Stiles can't judge, though, because he gets in and the engine purrs to life and he's pretty sure he's going to get to the hospital in record time.

.

The thing Stiles doesn't like about hospitals are their waiting rooms. He finds his friends in one, in maternity care, and grits his teeth against the silence. Waiting rooms are always quiet - out of respect, or privacy, or dread. He remembers waiting for hours with his father pacing the small area, until the doctors came out to let them visit his Mom, or to shake their heads and turn them away. 

Derek places his hand on the small of his back, almost instinctual, and Stiles melts into it, breathes out and realizes that the silence in this waiting room isn't dread at all, but pure, unadulterated excitement and joy. He feels it, too. The chairs are padded and arranged into groups of four around a small shared table, and the decor is warm with peach tones.

Lydia grins at him, a pure, blinding thing with all of her teeth, and draws him in for a hug. Isaac's there, sitting with his knee bouncing up and down, and he salutes Stiles when he comes over.

"Scott?" Stiles asks, breathless from the force of Lydia's hug.

"He's in there already," Lydia answers with a gesture past the double doors. "You should have seen him on the way in - like he didn't know how to work his own limbs anymore. And his  _face_. Oh, Stiles. Scott's going to be a great dad."

They all sit, agreeing, Lydia claiming the seat on Stiles' right so that Derek has to take the seat across from them. Isaac informs Stiles that Allison's Dad is going to be here soon, too. Lydia had called a little while ago. "Oh, yeah," Lydia says a little dreamily. "Chris."

Across from him, Stiles watches Derek's face contort with a frown, but his attention is quickly drawn away by Lydia, who shoves at his shoulder. "And where have you been, anyway? Isaac said he closed up yesterday?"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah, why?"

"Nothing, just--" Her eyes flick between Derek and Stiles, eyes sparkling when she reaches a silent conclusion. "Wanted to make sure you were okay." Her lips curl up into a self-satisfied grin. Derek smirks at her and Stiles watches the exchange, embarrassment creeping up his neck.

"God, Lydia. Yes. I asked Isaac to close up shop because I wanted to see Derek. You don't have to look so smug about it, okay?"

"Okay," Lydia says, preening and sitting back in her seat. "As long as you used a--"

"Wow, so how about this baby Allison's having, huh?" Isaac interrupt, loudly, and Stiles shoots him a grateful look.

Time passes. Lydia speaks in innuendos and seems to enjoy watching Stiles squirm. It's not like he keeps conversations about sex from her, or anything, but he'd really rather not have the details of his sexual escapades be discussed when the object of his sexual escapades is sitting right across from him. This sort of thing is much better over a glass of wine, in private, and preferably not in the maternity ward of the hospital. Isaac seems to think the same thing, as he keeps trying to bring the focus of the conversation back to the baby, or to the bakery, or even to Derek's work.

But Derek mostly just watches, amused at the banter and back-and-forth, rubbing every so often at his stubble that is verging on beard, because he hasn't shaved all weekend. And Stiles watches and wants to get  _all up in that_.

Except they're in a hospital. And Scott and Allison are about to be parents.

There are a few other visitors scattered about the waiting room, and the doors slide open and closed every once in a while, and Stiles thinks nothing of it until the doors slide open and in strides Chris Argent, dressed as he always seems to be (the few times Stiles has seen him) in a light cotton shirt and dark jeans and military-style jacket. Stiles sees him first and waves, and Chris waves back, pausing a beat as he sees the group, before seeming to roll his shoulders back and press on.

By the time he accepts the hug from Lydia - which always lingers a little longer than necessary, Stiles likes to think - he's smiling, his face lighting up from it. He stands and shakes Chris' hand and congratulates him, and he introduces him to Isaac.

He gestures for Derek to stand, too. But Derek is looking at Chris with his lips pressed into a grim line, and he's surprised when Chris returns the expression.

"Derek," Stiles says lightly, trying to suss out the tension, to ease it. "This is Chris Argent?"

Derek doesn't stand. Chris doesn't seem to care. "We've met," Derek tells Stiles without looking at him. "Congratulations," he bites out next, not sounding like he's very happy for him at all.

"Thank you," is Chris' stiff response. They don't shake hands. Chris pulls up a chair to sit next to Lydia, the farthest from Derek he can be but still in the group.

And then Derek stands.

He walks out of the waiting room, his steps echoing.

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the Chapter End Notes for spoilery warnings.

Derek's smoking when he finds him outside of the double-doors of the hospital, close to the curb, shoulders hunched against the biting wind in his hoodie. In their haste to get to the hospital, Derek had forgotten his jacket. He must have bummed the cigarette from someone, because Stiles knows that he doesn't carry any with him. In fact, he's never once smelled that kind of smoke on Derek - didn't even know this was a habit he had to hide. 

Stiles brings out his scarf from his messenger bag and wordlessly hands it to him when they stand level to each other, and Derek's eyes flick down to the cigarette between his own fingers, guilt in his features.

"I'll excuse it this one time," Stiles offers, wrapping the scarf around Derek's neck. "Because after the baby's safely delivered you're going to tell me what the  _hell_  that was."

Derek's eyes slide away from Stiles', dark, and Stiles tugs on the scarf to bring his attention back to focus on him. Derek grunts, scowls, but lets himself get wrapped up in the warmth. He flicks the half-smoked cigarette to the curb, not bothering to stomp it out. Smoke furls up from the end. 

"It was nothing," Derek murmurs, his face close.

"Don't lie to me," Stiles tells him, wants to beg of him, command of him. Stiles has a stance on lying. Namely: don't. He sees his father's face, briefly, in his mind - crumpled and worn, a stilted Thanksgiving dinner his sophomore year of college and the weight of untruths bearing down on them both. Never again, Stiles thinks. "That wasn't  _nothing_."

Derek sighs. He looks down at that cigarette with longing, holds Stiles between his fingers instead. "You're right, okay? But I'm not telling you here, not now, not in front of the hospital waiting for your friends to become parents. Later, okay?"

Stiles wants to press, wants to  _know_. There's something different about the expression on Derek's face, and it takes a moment for him to recognize it as fragility. So Stiles doesn't press. He sighs, too. "Okay," he says. "I'm going to conveniently forget this is happening until we leave, okay?"

"Thank you," Derek breathes against his lips, and kisses him, just a brief tap of lips against lips, as if to say  _I appreciate this, really_.

They walk back in. Chris resolutely ignores the both of them, but Lydia takes his hand, squeezing gently. 

.

The baby girl is healthy. They name her Victoria. Stiles holds her after her parents and grandparents do, and he looks back at Derek in the corner and offers him a smile.

.

The drive on the way back from the hospital is noticeably less charged with excitement than the drive to it, though Stiles struggles to wade his way through the thick cloud of dread that has surrounded Derek since stepping out from the maternity ward's doors. Scott and Allison and their new baby are safely tucked into a private room and Stiles remembers the sudden change that had come over Derek.

Even now, his fingers grip the steering wheel with space enough apart for a cigarette.

And he's not talking, and Stiles isn't talking, and the music isn't even on for them to listen to awkwardly, so it's not until they're stopped in front of Stiles' apartment building that he takes the initiative to reach over and prise Derek's fingers from the steering wheel, to hold that hand over the gear shift. "So," Stiles begins, trying to be gentle.

"So," Derek mirrors. He doesn't look at Stiles, but he looks at their hands, and he gulps.

The engine stalls, puttering, until Derek uses his other hand to turn it off. The sudden silence in the compact car is unnerving.

It is only Derek's further reluctance to start the conversation that makes Stiles aware of all the questions he has. Why is Derek so enigmatic about his past relationships? How does he know Chris? Why did Erica think he was straight? Why did knowing and seeing Chris in that moment, at the hospital, elicit such a strong response?

He almost wishes they could just be back at Derek's apartment, watching television and eating leftover take-out and sharing a throw blanket, or even at the bakery on the couch near the front windows, lazing around and soaking up what's left of the afternoon sun. But he wants to  _know_ Derek, and that means he can't just pretend he didn't feel a little hurt when Derek walked out, and again when Derek wouldn't confide in him. 

It feels a bit like he's peeling apart the layers of puff pastry dough, slowly and patiently, getting to know Derek, and rewarding all the same.

So Stiles starts on a relatively innocent question, "How do you know Chris?" thinking that Derek can open with that at whatever pace he feels comfortable, but Derek shakes his head, sighs again.

"He's my ex-girlfriend's brother," he says, and Stiles can't imagine that being too horrible, but then Derek continues. "She, uh, passed away about three-and-a-half years ago."

"Oh," Stiles says softly, squeezing Derek's hand. "I'm sorry."

Derek shakes his head. "No, I -- There's something else, Stiles. I think you should know. I mean, if this is -- if we're together like this. You should know." Derek pauses again, and the wait makes something tighten in Stiles' chest, even while he's rubbing the pad of his thumb soothingly over the back of Derek's hand. He watches as expressions flit across Derek's face rapidly - grief and frustration and finally, resolve.

"The twins," he begins slowly, "were ours. Or, I should say: she was their mother."

.

The story comes out.

Kate Argent and Derek had met and started dating in college, right around when Derek was a junior. They were really into each other. She was a little older in grad school, but it was good. Derek had a cool, older girlfriend and she was beautiful, and smart, and a firecracker to boot. In the beginning, it was good.

But college was good, too. Derek had slowly gotten more involved in intramural sports and other clubs, and with widening his social circle. He always had somewhere to go on the weekends. They'd kept dating, but saw each other less frequently. 

Something changed, then. He isn't sure what, but Kate started showing up more around him. She'd run into him at the coffee shop, or sit at his table in the library while he was trying to study. He didn't mind, really. They'd been official for a while then, and if she wanted to spend more time with him, so what?

He thought,  _wow this cool older chick is really into me_.

They had sex a few times.

Then it got weird.

She'd show up at the coffee shop, still, but now she'd also call him, text him, always asking him where he was, what he was doing. This went on for months. If he didn't answer, she'd be relentless in her texting. It freaked him out. Things were straining to the point that Derek's friends were getting involved. They wanted him to break up with her. He still liked the idea of her, but they convinced him to end things.

Derek was young - no need tying himself down to a crazy lady who borderline-stalked him.

So he'd tried breaking up with her. They went to the coffee shop. He thought maybe she knew what he was trying to do, because that was exactly when she sprang it on him. 

"Derek," she said. "I'm pregnant."

Just like that, cool and collected and with a hint of a smirk in her lips.

And she hadn't told anyone else, but it had been  _months_. Derek asked her what she wanted to do with it, and she told him there wasn't much they could do. It was too late for a safe abortion. She was going to carry the twins through, and Derek was going to support her.

"Yeah," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, shocked as he was about the news and the  _twins_.

It wasn't like they were okay after that. 

Kate got worse with her constant need to know where he was, with her policing, and Derek grew to resent her. That wasn't what he wanted out of a relationship.

At the hospital, Kate refused Derek's hand when he offered it, and then she kicked him out of her room. The twins were healthy, but Derek went back in and saw the look on Kate's face. She resented him, too.

"I thought maybe I wanted you to ask me to marry you," she confessed. "I know your family; I know what you stand to inherit. It could have been good. But now I look at your face and it disgusts me." She'd been sweaty and pale and breathless, and Derek had felt a part of his heart harden at the sight and her words.

They put the twins up for adoption quietly before Derek could get too attached. He wasn't ready for his own family like that, and Kate's words were true - he had much to inherit. A position at Riverwood would be waiting for him when he graduated, and keeping the twins would jeopardize that.

At the last minute, Peter and Felicia stepped in. They'd been trying to create a family of their own, and they'd felt something - a tug or a connection - to the twins the moment they laid eyes on them. The papers were signed quickly, and after that, Kate fucked off. 

Peter and Felicia paid off a lot of people to keep the whole ordeal quiet. Even Kate. And then they'd heard that she'd passed away - they don't know what happened, still. If she did it herself, Derek means.

But that's it. That's Derek's story. The twins are his and his ex-girlfriend is dead and he'd given up his children for a job.

Derek takes a huge, shuddering breath at the end and stills, though it still seems that he has more to say.

"What is it?" Stiles prompts, aware that he's breathing through his mouth, that his brain is struggling to fit all the pieces of his life Derek has just thrown at him into a finished puzzle. It makes sense, now, why Derek was so surprised and a little upset at Stiles randomly showing up where he worked, why Derek is so secretive about his past relationships, why Derek is so involved in the twins' lives. 

He's their  _Dad_.

Derek says, "Now is usually the time where the other party backs away and promises to call me sometime for dinner."

"Is that what you want me to do?"

A single word leaves Derek's lips like a confession, "No."

Stiles feels the tension melt from his shoulders, feels his lips quirk up involuntarily. "That's not what I want to do, either," he tells Derek quietly. "In fact, I think you should come inside. And stay."

So he stays.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters talk about possessive behavior in a relationship; stalking, control.  
> Characters talk about abortion. Also adoption.  
> Characters talk about suicide.

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this before Season 3 came out, and therefore all possible season 3 characters are really only characters here in name...Yeah. Sorry.
> 
> Also this is what I wanted my coffeeshop!AU to be before it tumbled down into a blackhole of feels. I promise this one will be much brighter.
> 
> I'm on tumblr [writing fic](andnowforyaya.tumblr.com) and [flailing](paperkrane.tumblr.com).


End file.
